Comforts of Home
by TrueAwesomeSauce
Summary: On a starship so far out on the edge of deep space, what are the things you find you miss most? What are the little things that make this work? Where do you find the comforts of home? Short pieces, some interconnected - with all core members of the crew.
1. Letters

Comforts of Home

_Note_: These stories intertwine somewhat with Before and After, for a dose of angsty goodness.

Standard _disclaimers_ apply то, что делает меня очень грустно (и Павел тоже, я подозреваю).

_Письма_

Pavel Andreivich has heard from his mother.

For Pavel, hearing from his mother is not as extraordinary, perhaps, as it is for some other members of the _Enterprise_ crew, but, still, this is not something that happens every day. Or every week, for that matter.

Communications across Space are not as straightforward as people at Home seem to think they should be. Every letter he receives, Mамa will complain that she does not hear enough from him, and ask, 'Mой сын, скажи пожалуйста, what do you need, out there on that ship?'

He will write her in return - and the note will piggyback to other, more official, communications, routed from base to base and ship to ship until it finally reaches his mother's console - to be devoured and lamented over, and derided as much too short and too long in coming.

Her response – responses – will be written and sent off to Starfleet, to be held and bundled together with those of the other families to make their slow way subspace to where the ship is expected to eventually be.

But schedules for a starship – and on it, for that matter – are notoriously unpredictable, and mail can wait for weeks or months, even, before arrival. And that is just the electronic.

Actual, physical mail is far slower. And that much more precious as a result.

At the Academy, Chekov had never really understood the pieces of real paper or plastic film his friends had received; and he thought it funny that they would keep those pages once they had been read, and not recycle them right away. He knew they would do so, eventually – it would be irresponsible not to – but to keep them seemed odd, especially since more were likely already on their way.

But now he understands.

Chekov has seen his friend Lou, transferred here from the _Constellation_, hold the note telling him of the birth of his son. He already knew, of course, from official notice – Starfleet understands the importance of this sort of news – then from the subspace electronic packet. But this piece of paper - received after the baby, now a toddler, had cut his first tooth - is as close as Lou can get to touching his child.

He has seen his friend Christine hesitate, then tear open the last letter she will receive from her fiancé. Though this is long after she was informed that communication with his team had been abruptly severed, her hands are shaking.

And today, he went to Forward Observation, to relax on the long couches there and to think about his news from home. He had fallen asleep, only to wake when he heard Commander Spock's level voice issuing a computer command.

Pavel is aware, from a few encounters much like this one, that the Commander comes here to meditate, sometimes. Pavel knows it is a deeply personal thing for the Commander – but even if he does not recognize that fact, he knows he can not stay long: The Commander is Vulcan and will pit his own inflexible will to maintain control against the inexorable will of the warp field to disorient.

The Commander kneels at the very center of the curving view screen, where it wraps back around his field of vision, and - as the polarizers shift and rise, and the filters dilate, allowing the room to fill with intense streaks of warping light - Chekov can see him fold and put away a small, well-worn piece of paper.


	2. Bubble Bath

_Bubble Bath_

Spock hates the water, she thinks; and - after considering the reasons why this would be true - she understands.

After two long sweaty days on a dusty world, she tries to talk to him about bubble baths. His brow crinkles, just the tiniest bit, and he tilts his head as he looks at her.

He understands immersion.

He understands 'the universal solvent', and the function of soap; he understands the effects of various factors involved upon the human nervous system; he even understands the beauty of the ephemeral translucent spheroids. And while he acknowledges that his mother enjoyed this combination also, he simply does not see the attraction; and so he says nothing.

Nyota tells him about this 'bubble bath', and watching her face, he nods: He recognizes that it appeals to her sensual nature. He hears the faint note of yearning in her voice, and knows that this is a comfort of home that neither he, nor the _Enterprise,_ can provide.

A bubble bath does not make sense.

On evenings when he is working late, she sometimes takes her reading to the pool deck. She changes into a swimsuit, and sits on the edge reading, her feet dangling in the water. When the call of the cool blue becomes too much, she takes her padd to a waiting chair. She pulls out the band that holds back her hair, drops it onto the padd. She shakes her hair down around her shoulders, feeling it sweep across her bare skin. Walking to the end of the waiting lane, she realizes that this is now the only time she does this, feels this, outside of his quarters, or hers: It is an unconscious gift she has given to him – Her hair, loose and framing her face, is something only he sees.

She understands immersion.

She stands, for a moment, right on the edge, with her toes curling over – and then she dives.


	3. Nailpolish

_Nail-polish_

Nyota knows she can never really explain to him why it feels so good.

Curled up at the opposite end of the little couch, facing him, she struggles to find a logical reason, something he will relate to; and Spock just looks at her, patiently awaiting her next words - and a more successful attempt.

She gazes into his eyes – deep and warm, tempting as a tropical pool - and wonders why this is one thing he can't understand.

She glances away a moment, to try to find other words to express what she means - and catches a reflection in the mirror. When she turns back, to gaze at him again, she still has that image in her mind's eye; and it super-imposes over the more intimate one of the man she loves.

With sudden objectivity, she sees a man who is not discontented wearing a uniform every day of his life. Even in those uncommon circumstances that demand he don something other than his Science Blue, he still wears a uniform. Before the Blue goes on, there are the regulation Blacks. Barring that, the Formal Dress tunics that make the others squirm – but which he will wear like a second skin.

(His Instructor Greys – for years all she'd ever seen him in - hang, ignored, in his closet, worn last on a fateful day.)

For exercise, he still wears Starfleet issue.

And the rest of the time?

He has always belonged to a culture that operates logically. Efficiency is logical. Uniforms are efficient. Vulcan children all dress alike, at least for school – Their clothes are logical, created for this specific purpose.

On those very infrequent occasions, now, when he wears clothing of Vulcan origin, it is still a uniform: Though crafted with a restrained beauty, these garments say much about his purpose, his position, and his people. When he wears his black or charcoal _sha'mi _robes, and kneels to mediate, it is clear exactly what he is: Disciplined son of a noble Vulcan clan. Even on the _Enterprise_, surrounded by standard Starfleet décor, he can not be anything else.

But without those robes, he is still obviously Vulcan.

Yes, by blood – it shows in his ears and his eyebrows, but not just there: His Vulcan-ness flows through his veins, as surely as the copper does.

And yes, by tradition and training – he believes in Vulcan philosophy, and he approaches the Universe, always, with curiosity and logic. Immersed as he is in the words of Surak, he embraces that underlying principal that makes _them_ possible: She and Spock are a living example of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations – and he accepts their differences as both necessary and beautiful. It is only logical to do so.

But he also follows the Vulcan way by choice; and his hair – so severe and so precise -reflects that choice, and proves him, once again, to be exactly what he is.

And about that, she knows a secret - but it only demonstrates how Vulcan he chooses to be. She will run her hands through its soft, silky strands; she will rumple it and do her best to disarrange it. And it might be messy - almost human - for a moment or two; but when the moment is over, Spock will shake his head, and his hair will fall back into place (with rare assistance from deliberate fingers) and he will be thoroughly Vulcan once more.

But still, she thinks, he should be able to understand.

Then she realizes his very uniformity is part of what makes him seem so different. It is obvious he is Vulcan; and people are curious. Strangers stare and, sometimes, point him out. So perhaps he does understand – but he can not relate.

He has chosen a life of uniformity because he is, himself, so very different. On Vulcan, Human – Everywhere else, Vulcan. And she sees, now, how the former is no longer possible.

No, he could never relate.

But Spock is, in fact, Vulcan, a true follower of Surak: He can most certainly accept.

Smiling into his eyes, she surrenders her attempt at rational explanation. She shrugs. "It just makes me feel good," she says. "It makes me feel unique, special – beautiful."

Looking back into her eyes, he nods gravely.

And as she props her feet on his thigh, he takes one of them into his warm strong palm, turning it gently so that he can see her toes clearly. He reaches those deliberate Vulcan fingers for a bottle of nail-polish.


	4. Care Package

_Care Package_

They loaded supplies today, at Starbase Nine, and Pavel Andreivich has received a package from his mother.

He is surprised by how emotional it makes him to see his name written in Cyrillic - her writing - and the efficient label printed by Starfleet, with his rank, his department, and the name of his ship. Looking at it, a little over-whelmed, he feels very young, and hopes no one sees him, and thinks it, too.

With sudden sympathy, he understands his Grandfather, who shared with him, so earnestly, legends from his youth of people collecting postage stamps: Those bright bits of paper affixed to packages that paid their way until they reached their destination.

And he is glad that this one arrived without those markings, instead bundled into a freight container with others all bound for this ship.

Chekov is grateful that this is one service that the Federation will perform willingly, not just for the crew, but for the families at Home missing their sons and daughters – and husbands, wives, parents, too.

He blinks and carries the package to his quarters. He knows he will ask later, and find out the route it had to travel all the way to the ship.

But, meanwhile, there is the package, and when he opens it, he laughs. Looking through it, he sees the absurdity in sending some of these things so far out into Space. But he is grateful.

And as the layers of things come out, he finds himself wishing, just the littlest bit, that it hadn't come – or, at least, hadn't been sent – because he finds himself feeling, just the littlest bit, like his mother's son too far out in Space.

He pictures her reading all of his messages, looking for clues for things to send that will bring him comfort, and remind him of home. Here, surrounding him on his bed, is the evidence of the care she has taken in reading his words, and in looking for the meaning behind what he's written.

He knows his Ϻама is proud of what her son has accomplished, that she learns everything she can about the journeys of this ship – and tells the stories, at home, to anyone who will listen.

She asks him questions about his friends, colleagues, officers: He is sure she does it to make sure that there is someone who will help look after her boy; but he answers because he is proud of what he does, and how he contributes. He is delighted by the friendships he has formed, and the family he has found here. And he is proud, too, of his friends, colleagues, officers.

So there are funny things, here, too from the stories he has told.

But when he gets to the bottom of the package, and takes the last things out, he is not laughing. He finds himself not just crying, but weeping without restraint – and he is glad that this package arrived.


	5. Civvies

_Civvies_

Commander Spock almost always wears his uniform. Even on shoreleave, he wears it.

Sometimes, then, she'll wear hers, too: It's her subtle indication that they just might come as a matched set.

But the rest? They go for civvies.

They can put aside their uniforms for a few hours, or a few days, and be who they are – Or be who they want to be, which just might be something different.

On a night like tonight, when they have an evening of shoreleave at no-where-in-particular, they throw on their favorites: Those well-worn items they just couldn't leave behind.

Tonight, they have just enough time for a couple of beers, knowing a Vulcan will keep the home fires burning.

Uhura strips off her uniform and considers three outfits before deciding which best expresses her mood. But when she's done, she feels beautiful. She says good-bye to her sweetie, and hears in his silence his hopes that she will have a nice time.

She waits in the Transporter Room for the boys to come.

The Captain wears his flannel, and it carries the opposite of authority. It's a shirt that belongs to a guy named Jim: Just an old faded shirt that's like he is, underneath. It's always been tough but it's now broken in – and there's something soft about that, something vulnerable, which begs for a touch. And women will touch him, no doubt about that.

Sulu's in black, and he looks non-descript, until he smiles his flashing bright smile… Soon he'll drink, tell wicked jokes, and untie that black. She's curious what his t-shirt will tell her tonight. It's always a surprise, and always makes her laugh. ('_Capo Ferro'_? Nice.)

Chekov is neat in his 'here I am not wearing a uniform' clothes. And it's still the uniform, just not Starfleet issue: Cargo pants (black), long sleeve undershirt (not black – hey, white, this time), a bright-colored t-shirt over. He's neat and pristine.

But when they dance, he'll jump around. The undershirt will come half-untucked, his pants will hitch up on his left boot, and his curls will be damp with sweat. Chekov is very appealing when he's all unwound - and she wishes she could tell him that, sometime.

Scotty has on grubby old somethings that don't look like much. He hunches morosely in his civvies; and she knows he wishes he were back on the job, finishing what he was working on before. But when they've gone down there, they'll pour some whiskey, and commiserate – Jim will make him laugh. Then Sulu will tell a joke, and Chekov's tongue will stumble retelling the Russian version. Scotty's eyes will begin to twinkle under the cap she knit for his birthday, and he'll push back his sleeves. He'll tell an outrageous story that happens to be true: He'll become the life of the party.

Leonard's wearing baggy old jeans a size too big; and she's sorry, 'cause he has a nice ass. Skinny but nice - He just doesn't know it. He has a green twill shirt tucked in all around, with button cuffs done tight. She's watched him and knows that if trouble comes, he'll neatly roll those out of the way, to do what needs to be done. But, maybe, if he relaxes, he'll roll them sloppy, and when they unroll, he'll just let them flop.

He will lean back in a chair to one side, and prop his feet up, shaking his head over their juvenile antics. He'll look over, catch her eye. "C'mon, Darlin'," he'll say, climbing to his feet. "You're looking too pretty to waste on this." He'll hold out his hand with his small Southern bow. "Let's dance."

Tonight, she'll go out with Jim and the boys. She'll flirt, and she'll laugh; she'll likely drink just a little bit too much. She'll talk too loud about things that really mean nothing. And she'll dance, and dance, and dance.

She'll feel beautiful, alive: A human being - a woman - in her prime.

Tonight, she'll call the ship and transport up, just before he leaves the Bridge. If she times it right, they'll meet in the turbolift – or come from opposite ends of the corridor. He'll be cool and composed in his crisp brilliant blue.

Their eyes will meet.

Tonight, she'll dance and come home with her skin hot and flushed. And she'll strip off her civvies.


	6. Uniforms, sometimes

_Uniforms (Sometimes)_

He wears his uniform like a second skin.

She'll never tell - but, sometimes, as he gets dressed, or when he moves toward her, it takes her breath away.

Off-duty - on shoreleave - when he's the only soul aboard - he still wears it: These are the clothes that are his home.

It is just one of the many things, she thinks, that are, uniquely, Spock.

And if she watches, waits, breathlessly as he strips it off… Well, she'll never tell.

When the day is done, and the door has closed behind her, Nyota hangs up her uniform, and slips into something more comfortable. Mostly it's for her benefit, but sometimes for his.

And sometimes, she wears his old, torn uniform.

Keeping those - and wearing them (not always, but sometimes, with nothing else at all) - is her compensation, she says, for the risks he takes.

So that, too, is for her benefit – but sometimes? It's for his.


	7. Shower

_Shower_

Bone-weary, Leonard McCoy sinks onto the side of his bed.

He sits there a moment, too tired to move, too tired to think. He runs his hands through his hair, and falls back on the bed. He scrubs at his eyes for a second, then squeezes them shut against the light stabbing down at him.

He breathes through the pain as all of the tensed places in his back scream in protest at the abrupt change in position.

He needs to get up, he needs to eat, he needs to shower. He needs a drink.

His eyelids feel tight, and he drops one elbow over his face. But the view inside his eyelids is no less painful than the light - and he struggles to a sitting position.

He imagines he can feel his bones creaking as he bends to undo his boots.

He tosses those into the corner, and his socks wind up there, too. He starts to throw his surgical tunic – but years of Med School training assert themselves, and he climbs heavily to his feet. He grabs the socks, and wadding them up with the tunic, drops them into the bin. The rest of his clothes follow.

Naked, he stumbles into the bathroom, and winces in the uncompromising double glare of overhead light and gleaming surfaces. He flips on the shower – he figures he deserves a real one, today – and turns up the temp. He leans one arm against the shower door jamb; his elbow twinges a little. He drops his head, and waits for the room to fill with steam.

When he looks up, there is a rivulet running down the mirror - He's not sure, but he might have dozed off.

He steps into the cubicle and the blast of water strikes him. The droplets sting against his skin with scouring force, and his skin reddens instantly. But the pain feels good: It is immediate, distracting him from a more insidious pain.

The water feels good. It runs in his eyes, blinding him, but it washes away the visions that threaten to creep in behind closed lids.

The heat feels good – He feels his muscles relaxing, and he begins to think he just might get some sleep.

The soap, the shampoo, feel good. He raises his arms to scrub his hands through his hair – Massaging his scalp, he feels stiff fingers loosen, and a lessening of the dull ache behind his eyes. He inhales the fragrance, and is reminded of home.

He feels better, younger – suddenly clean.


	8. Clutter

_Clutter_

The _Enterprise_ is incredibly clean. Her air filtration systems are state of the art. Her surfaces gleam. The decks and labs and bays are invariably spotless.

It seems she is intolerant of anything which will mar her pristine perfection.

Engineering – where you'd expect to see grime – is watched over by the jealous eyes of a once grubby man turned puritanical tyrant where his Lady is concerned.

Even the Captain is as neat as she demands that he be.

Uhura finds a certain amusement in the fact that the messiest place she can think of, on the whole ship, is in the very heart of the Medical Facilities - where her most reluctant denizen resides. Doctor McCoy's desk is, compared to everywhere else, a cluttered heap. And it's not, really - Not at all: There are a few data chips by the console, some handwritten notes, an empty coffee cup. His padd hangs, precariously, over one edge.

He makes an effort to straighten it when his immediate superior is due for a conference; but it eventually devolves to its former cluttered state, a perennial victim of benign neglect.

Uhura wonders what the _Enterprise_ would look like if she were not haunted, after hours, by the silent foot falls of the tidiest man on the ship. Because Spock is very, very tidy – and while he makes allowances for the humanity of her crew, nothing will be allowed to interfere with the proper functioning of this ship.

Knowing this to be so - whether from respect, or fear, or well-trained habit - at the end of every shift every thing is returned (as much as possible) to its right and proper place.

Standing in his quarters, she finds that kind of funny, too.

Spock _is_ very tidy - very neat and precise - with a matter-of-factness that makes it appear only logical.

But he doesn't seem to mind the feminine clutter that shifts about these rooms. She'll tidy it away in fits and spurts, and promise herself to be neater. But she made that same promise a week ago – and now there's a bottle of nail polish on the table, and a knitting bag on his couch.

Under the mirror, her eyeliner and compact have shifted from their burnished tray, and her hairbrush is nestled alongside his.

Her tallest heels are thrown to opposite sides of the now neatly-made bed – and there are underthings somewhere around.

She checks the chronometer, and turns down the music. She places her work neatly on the desk, and grabs the nail polish. She quickly puts the cosmetics aright, and hangs up the bag.

She aligns the heels precisely to carry them to the closet. She doesn't hear the door, as she's looking for her other stocking.

His hands are on her hips, then; and, as she straightens, his breath in her ear. "Leave them," he says.


	9. Trees

_Деревья_

Pavel Andreivich Chekov loves trees.

Now, that may seem to be a silly observation; but, truly, this is something profound. It is as much a part of Pavel Andreivich as Mother Russia herself – or perhaps they are one and the same: The endless emerald cloak she wears has been her eternal adornment. Memories of the immortal forested shoulders of his homeland are a comfort to this child of the Rus, and he has shared countless stories with a trusted few in his tangled-tongue chattering way.

On the outskirts of Moscow, oaks – and birches – stand so thick that the noises of the city cannot be heard; and the loudest sound, when the animals sleep, is the clatter of falling leaves. In Khimki Forest, the Czars once rode to the hunt – and a young Pavel Chekov, driven by a mind so far-ranging that he could not find rest in the bright babble of student-filled school halls, sought peace in dappled shifting light and the silent, secret, motionless midst of tall, dark, slender sentinels.

And found it.

Now, on shoreleaves, when conditions are right, Chekov will find a tree that calls to him. He'll climb to its heart and sit surrounded by ancient gnarled limbs, to listen to its insistent whisper, its age-old murmur: The sough of wind in its leaves.

He'll blink in the stained-glass glow of breeze-bent foliage; peer through a web of broad-shouldered branches; look out across an endless verdant vista of colorful-capped comrades-at-heart - and be as snug and content as any small black-and-gold squirrel could ever hope to be.

No matter the stresses that have come before – the hours, the dangers, the losses or pain – Chekov will climb down from his arboreal nest renewed, refreshed, alive.


	10. Ink

_Neshuk_

Spock prepares for this task, as he prepares for anything else: With purposeful intent, deliberation.

He suspects that the other members of the crew would not see the logic in this activity.

Spock is known on this ship for his efficiency, his precision, and the rapidity with which he performs his function. He is known for his logic.

Performing any task well is logical.

Performing any task well carries its own beauty.

And Spock is Vulcan: He takes pleasure in performing a task well.

There are other methods of performing this same function that are more efficient. There are others more rapid. There are others, even, that require the same precision to be done well.

But there are none as beautiful.

This note will be nothing special. It will lie on her pillow until she lifts it and reads that he has work that must be done, now, in the time before she goes to sleep.

These are ordinary words that would be expected to bring her sorrow, however mild.

Knowingly bringing sorrow to another is not logical.

He dips the pen and writes, taking pleasure in the characters unfurling rapidly, precisely, efficiently from his pen. He takes pleasure in the ink lines of his native language flowing down the page. And he takes pleasure in knowing it will bring joy to her to read his message delivered in this way.

Indeed, this task is eminently logical.


	11. Russian Girls

_Русские Девушки_

Chekov hasn't shown up in the Officer's Mess; though he had said to Hannity and Sulu, as they left the Bridge in the first wave of shift changes, "I will see you at dinner, yes?"

He might occasionally get distracted thinking about some theory and show up later than planned, but Chekov seldom changes his mind about things like that, especially once he has stated his intentions out loud. Being reliable is important to him: He'll be here sooner or later.

Sulu finds his vague unease turning to worry as the other members of the Bridge Crew come and go, and Chekov still does not arrive.

"Listen," Sulu says, when Hannity, keeping him company, shows signs of restlessness, "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

She smiles a little, and gives him a quick squeeze before wandering off to do whatever; and Sulu manages to notice that the view is nice, as she walks away.

He heads to Chekov's quarters, then, but the Russian doesn't answer his chime. He waits a second, and rings again – and stands in the corridor for a minute or two, just in case.

"Hey, Janice." Captain Kirk's Yeoman is passing; her quarters are just down the way. "You haven't seen Chekov, have you?"

But the blonde shakes her head. "No, I haven't – not since this morning."

And Sulu doesn't want to alarm her - or make a big deal of an absentminded Navigator missing one meal. "Okay. Thanks."

She smiles, and tosses her hair – and her hips sway a little, as she walks away. Sulu grins at that.

Janice is great. And, truth be told, so are her legs. But he suspects that she's just practicing: He thinks she has someone a little higher-ranking in mind, and, really, he can't blame her for that.

Still, he knows it makes Chekov's morning to see her, too; maybe walk with her to breakfast - and he can't blame him for that, either.

She's gone on her way, and Sulu is trying to decide where to look next, when she pops back round the corner, just for a second. "Packages arrived today," she says, and her smile is just a little bit cheeky. She probably knows he was watching her go.

He checks, and finds, that Chekov did get a package. There's no telling where the Russian is, if he's not in his quarters.

Hikaru squashes the worry that flares then. He tells himself that it's not like Pavel's a kid who needs looking after…

Maybe for some reason he had thought they'd meet in the Rec Room, or something, instead.

Sulu wanders through the Rec Rooms, from One on down. You know, just on the off-chance. But he doesn't see Pavel. And the kid's probably fine.

While he's down here, he decides to hit Botany; maybe feed some plants, water a tree – not that that's not automated, or anything, but still, sometimes things need a little extra care.

He's talking to Gertrude in the garden specimen lab, when he gets an idea.

Compared to ones on most starbases or the average member planet, the ship's arboretum hardly seems worthy of its name. But to those who would seek solace or solitude in the midst of such a place, it is a green and growing tree-strewn sanctuary.

The Captain, and Chekov - and Sulu, himself - will venture there. And though the place will still seem empty more often than not - so will countless others from amongst this vast and diverse crew.

No oak or birch, here; but Pavel Andreivich finds comfort none-the-less in the presence of these diminutive cousins of the tall dark Khimki sentinels who silently stood guard as he sought peace during the trying times of his youth.

The Russian talks sometimes of folklore, or the ancient forest itself – and in every word of those tales Sulu hears how far they are from Moscow.

So this is where Sulu thinks to look for a Chekov who has forgotten, somehow, where he meant to be.

He finds him seated at the base of the tallest pine.

It's really not very tall; but all things are relative, and this is the tallest the ship can provide.

Pavel Andreivich is gazing at the lowest branches, a foot or two in front of his nose - as though he will be swept up, at any moment, by those pine-spice-scented blue/green/black-clad arms.

But no - As Sulu walks closer, he sees that that is not what Chekov's looking at. There's something small hanging from the branch, turning in the slight breeze engendered by the Russian's soft breaths of air.

Sulu lowers himself down to sit beside his friend, glancing at him as he does. Pavel is blinking, every now and again, as he stares at the tree – and it takes him a moment to look over and acknowledge that Sulu's there.

"Hey," Hikaru says.

When there's no reply, Sulu speaks again, "We missed you at dinner."

Chekov's arms tighten around his bent knees. After a minute, he nods, miserably – and Sulu knows that that is as much for the broken promise as for anything else.

"Yeah, well, no big deal," Sulu says. "It's not exactly like we won't have another one tomorrow, or the next day, or the next." He makes his voice as casual as he can, maybe even a little wry.

And Chekov looks over at him. "That is very true," he observes, solemnly. "There will be another dinner tomorrow."

He reaches forward and takes the little object off of the tree. He holds it up, with the tips of his fingers so that it catches the light, and turns it just a bit. After a few moments, he closes his fist around the little figure of a girl. He is starting to put it away when Sulu asks gently, "What is that?"

"матрёшка," Chekov says, shrugging; and he looks away to hide his expression, which is wistful, and, maybe, a little bit shy.

"Matryoshka?" Sulu tries to imitate the Russian's accent – and does it, he suspects, very badly.

"Дa," Chekov says. "Очень хорошо: Very good. It's a 'babushka', a granny doll." And he hands the tiny thing to Sulu.

The object is small, some 6 cm tall and half as wide, roughly cylindrical, and rounded at the top with a ribbon threaded through a wire loop twisted into the wood. It is painted like a little Russian peasant woman with rosy cheeks and a curving smile. Her dress is bright and colorful - orange, and red, and blue. She looks cheerful, contented – and she makes Sulu smile.

"My mother sent it to me," Chekov says, and he is shy, again, as though he is a little afraid Sulu will laugh at him.

"It's neat, Chekov," Sulu declares, and he holds it up to the light, just as his friend had done. He sees, then, a faint horizontal line across its middle. He runs his finger over the line; then, curious, he gently grips the top of the doll with his fingertips.

Watching him, Chekov smiles faintly; and nodding, says again, "Da, ochin karosho."

Sulu grasps the bottom of the little figure with his other hand and twists gingerly. The doll breaks apart.

No, it _comes_ apart – There is a second doll inside, a pretty young Russian girl - and inside that, another. This littlest one is painted like a swaddled baby, and its sleeping eyes are closed. The rosy cheeks and smile are just the same, though: It is obvious that her dreams are sweet.

Hikaru laughs a little at this fancy, and turns to Chekov in delight.

His grin inspires an answering one in Russian - and all embarrassment is gone.


	12. Pool Deck

_Pool Deck_

Spock, she thinks, will not come to be with her on the pool deck. The air is cool and humid; and sound here is both oddly muted and unexpectedly reverberant.

But Nyota enjoys it.

She comes to the pool deck, and reads by the water's edge or in one of the lounge chairs that some wistful ship's designer has provided in the hopes that that will, somehow, fool the crew into believing they can feel the Sun and her heat.

Sometimes, the Captain or some of the others will join her here, and when they do, she walks to the edge with her hand holding her hair back out of her face.

Jim Kirk watches her walk, and wonders whether she has any idea how she looks: With bare feet, her walk is different, softer, more grounded; and as she pauses on the tile, she looks like a sculpture – a gentle study in opposing curves. Her body is slender but strong; and although her uniform leaves the majority of those long graceful limbs uncovered, it is startling to see so much of her skin. One arm is raised, and her hand twists her hair into an untidy knot on the crown of her head. Her back is almost bare, and a few loose dark tendrils escape her fingers and dangle from the nape of her neck nearly to her hips - inviting familiar fingers, he thinks, to trace their length.

He quickly dives into the water, and feels the cold rush over him. He swims a few strokes and turns to watch Uhura dive, too.

She comes up not very far from him, treading water. As she does, she tilts her head back so that her hair washes away from her face. Water streams from it, and it hangs in a thick, dark and heavy mass, plastered to her head, showing its shape. Small droplets cling to her eyelashes; she blinks a few times before turning to swim.

He swims the opposite direction.

He knows that when he turns, and breathes, he'll see her swimming toward him.


	13. Yolka

_Ёлка_

It is early December, back on Earth - and Sulu has, twice more, now, found Chekov seated at the foot of the not-so-tall tree in the ship's arboretum.

At first Hikaru simply thought that it had been too long between shoreleaves – or Class M planets – and that Chekov just needed to see a tree.

But now, he wonders.

Everyone is a little homesick, he thinks, and it is no wonder that they seek the parts of the ship that remind them of their favorite places. But this particular tree has been getting a lot of attention in the last week or so.

Even Commander Spock – whom no one would ever dream of accusing of homesickness – was eying it appraisingly just the other day. He did not actually look confused; but though he stood for some time in front of it, he did not seem satisfied by whatever he discovered - and he paced away in his deliberate fashion.

Now, Sulu finds Timkins here, his red tunic contrasting vividly with the sweeping blue-green branches.

"Hey, Joel," Sulu greets him.

Timkins glances back, then awkwardly climbs to his feet when he sees who is there. "Hi," he says, and he seems a little embarrassed. "I was just… uhm -"

Sulu feels for him, and is figuring out a suitable reply, when the door whooshes again. And like a miracle, Captain Kirk walks in, right at that moment. He saunters over. "Hello, Timkins, Sulu." He gives them each a nod. "Visiting the tree?"

Sulu laughs. "I was going to water it, actually. But Timkins was here for a visit, I think."

Timkins looks positively sheepish.

But Captain Kirk doesn't notice. "Yeah, you and a lot of people, lately." Maybe he catches the slight reddening of Timkins' ears, but he doesn't comment. "Little wonder, I should say."

Timkins looks like he's not sure how to respond. "Really?"

"Well, of course. Long way from home, Lieutenant. Right?"

"Yes… Yes, sir." And Timkins is getting ready to escape, but he smiles, first. "Thank you, sir."

"No problem." The Captain smiles, too – and he suddenly looks a lot younger.

After the door closes, Kirk drops to the ground. He looks up – an invitation to Sulu – and when the other joins him, nods at the tree. "Beautiful," he says.

Sulu agrees.

"I always liked pines," the Captain says, and he seems a little nostalgic. "Especially the ones that smell like butterscotch. But they're all good: Ponderosa, Blue Spruce, Lodgepole…" His voice trails off, then starts again, musing. "I figured maybe I'd have a cabin, someday, way out in the woods, where the snow falls really thick – and where no one ever heard of Captain Kirk, you know?"

Sulu doesn't know what to say. He wonders which Captain Kirk they're even talking about, but wouldn't think of asking. This one doesn't talk about himself much, like this; and Sulu keeps quiet, not wanting to interrupt.

The Captain seems to realize Sulu's predicament: He laughs, a little, and looks over. "Well, not this winter."

Sulu nods in agreement, somewhat relieved at the turn in the Captain's mood, and conversation.

Kirk leans back, then, on his hands, and stretches his legs out in front of him, his ankles crossed. He's smiling, gazing at the tree. His feet waggle a bit – The Captain is relaxed, happy.

After a few minutes, he looks over at Sulu, again. "Think we oughta decorate it?"

It hadn't occurred to Sulu before: That's why they have all been coming – It's a pine tree, and it's almost Christmas.

He had been so busy thinking of it as simply a tree...

Hikaru's quick glance takes in the small smile of contentment on the Captain's face, before his eyes turn back to the tree. He says, thoughtfully, "Maybe."

He thinks, then, of Chekov, weeks ago, sitting right here, blinking at a tiny little Russian toy hung on the lowest branches of the tree. He looks once more at the Captain, and answers again, more firmly. "Yes."

The Captain looks over at him, grins. Sits up, slaps his shoulder. "Good. Let's." He's climbing to his feet, then, and reaches to pull Hikaru up. Their hand-clasp seems to seal a bargain.

* * *

A week later, Sulu is standing in the arboretum. He's not sure why he received this assignment. Maybe it's his familiarity with the plants – or maybe it's something else, entirely: It was the Captain's idea.

Lieutenant Sulu is officially in charge of Operation Tannenbaum. His unofficial deputy is Lieutenant Uhura: She knows just about everyone on the ship – by voice, if not by face - and has a way of getting them to listen with an open mind. She has been spreading the word, and encouraging them to come. (She's also singing Christmas carols – which has definitely helped set the mood.)

So people trickle in to check on progress, maybe help out – and they promise to return, later, with something special to hang on the tree.

But Sulu has done his own recruiting, too, seeking out those who have been seen, in the last month or so, gazing at this tree.

Timkins is rigging small spotlights. That seems a fitting task for an engineer far from home. He has Watley helping him, and that seems right, too.

Hickerson is holding the ladder – The three tunics make a vivid splash in the green green of the arboretum.

Jakobsen and Chekov sit on the ground, stringing popcorn and cranberries. Her white-blonde head leans toward him, as she makes some comment, and he blushes beet red. Their accents are complementary, as well - the deft soft Swedish and tangled Russian - as they compare notes on traditions of their respective homelands. They both stand automatically, without thinking, when Commander Spock comes in.

He nods, but does not comment; and they both sit, again, when he has gone past.

Uhura turns, and smiles, when she sees him. "Commander," she says, and she seems to be surprised.

"Lieutenant," he responds, his demeanor serious as ever.

"We're decorating the Christmas tree," she announces proudly.

"So I see," he replies.

And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she takes his arm and leads him toward it. He goes with her, gravely, and does not free himself from her grasp. He listens courteously to what she is saying, "…and then the garlands. And after that, all of the individual ornaments." She glances up at him for a moment, before looking, again, at the tree. "I'm really hoping that everyone will get into the spirit and bring something to put on it. You know - Something beautiful, a reminder of home…" Her free hand gestures, conjuring something of her vision; and her voice trails off.

"Yes, that would be fitting," he says, solemnly, "if I understand correctly both the history and ongoing cultural significance of this tradition."

Her smile is bright, as she looks up at him; and his eyes slide toward her, just for an instant, before gazing back at the tree. He nods, gently, before he turns to go.

She calls after him, softly, "Commander? I'll call you if we need help, later, okay?"

And he nods once more before soundlessly slipping from the room.

Captain Kirk is grinning widely at the assembled group of people, when Mr. Spock returns. More are arriving by the moment, and they stand around in various clumps - chatting, talking, laughing. A good-natured argument has broken out about the best of traditions, and Chekov caps them with his insistence that, after all, it's really better to celebrate Christmas in January - and what are they, anyway, impatient children?

Jakobsen is laughing. She says teasingly, smiling at him, that she thinks he would look wonderful dressed as a gnome – and, by the way, does he like almonds?

Standing with them, Sulu laughs at the confusion on his friend's face. He suggests that maybe Chekov should learn more Swedish – or about the Swedish, at any rate. Jakobsen grins, and draws the Russian off to one side, her face alight.

Almost unnoticed, Commander Spock has slipped back into the room as quietly as he had left it, his hands full of what looks like wire. He stands, alone, for a moment, his bright blue tunic standing out against the mass of red and gold of the assembled personnel. He does not join them, but, instead, steps to the side, and seats himself on a bench where he can observe their activities. As he puts his things down, it strikes Sulu that the Commander always does seem to be alone - solitary somehow - even in a crowd. Even with Uhura - though maybe a little less so, then.

She has noticed his arrival, and is headed that way.

Captain Kirk is working the crowd. Sulu may be in charge of the decorating part, but this is definitely Kirk's party. He is greeting people, talking to them, making them fall in love with him all over again. Sulu is amazed, once more, by the details that Kirk remembers about his crewmen – the things that strike him as important. The Captain doesn't have much time, really, to interact with all of these people on a day-to-day basis; but he knows something special – some little fact – about each one, even if it's only a nickname, a place of birth, a hobby.

Sulu is greeting the others who have come to help. He assigns them tasks he thinks they will enjoy, alongside people they probably should get to know.

Timkins and Watley have finished with the lights. Watley stands with Hickerson, as Timkins unobtrusively tests them, then climbs down from his perch.

Chekov and Jakobsen's popcorn-and-cranberry strands are laid out neatly, ready to be hung. The others finish with their various garlands, too. They stand, brushing at their clothes with that universal gesture of an untidy task completed. They are smiling with satisfaction and camaraderie.

Sulu thanks them, and admires the results of their efforts. He goes to get another ladder: It's time to get the show on the road.

The Captain climbs the tallest ladder to hang the very first strand of hand-made garland. He is the consummate showman: He gives the task full, solemn weight – as though he's christening a ship. He drapes the end of the garland across the topmost branch, arranges the next few feet as best he can, looks down and nods. The person holding the other end walks away, winding the length around the tree. Kirk turns, then, and leans against the top of the ladder – grinning boyishly, and laughing a little at his own solemnity.

There are answering grins from the onlookers around him, then - and no shortage of volunteers, when, climbing down, he stops and says, "Next!" before hopping over the last two rungs into the waiting crowd.

Sulu makes the rounds.

Uhura had moved closer to watch and to lend her voice for the first round of garland, but is standing, now, near Commander Spock. Sulu goes over to talk to her. "I thought I'd go up to the Bridge, maybe give some of those guys a chance to come down for a few minutes while everyone's still here," he says. He looks over, idly, and sees that Commander Spock is using his fingers to bend a length of stiff wire into elaborate scrolls.

"That's a good idea," Uhura says. Her eyes meet Spock's for a moment; his nod is almost invisible. She smiles at Sulu, her green earrings swinging as she turns her head. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"If you want. I'm betting Chekov will go, and Jakobsen. Hannity. Kyle, maybe."

Spock neatly sets aside his wire, and stands. Uhura puts her hand gently on his arm, just for a moment – and Sulu is struck with the notion that, for her, it's like a surreptitious hug. That's kind of sweet, he thinks: Merry Christmas to her... Spock moves toward the Captain, catches his eye. They exchange a few words while Sulu and Uhura collect volunteers to spell the Bridge.

They go out together, heading for the turbolift. They step inside, and Uhura somehow is beside the Science Officer, then. She keys in the code for the Bridge. He keys in another, then says, quietly, into the hush of the lift, "I will make certain that the scientists and technicians realize they are free to attend, if they so desire."

There is a brief silence, before Uhura answers, a smile evident in her voice, "Thank you, Commander. That's very thoughtful."

Spock doesn't reply; but, Sulu thinks, he doesn't need to…

He comes to the Bridge with the returning on-shift crew - They are merry, indeed, and Sulu is glad he thought to spell them.

Spock does not linger there, but travels with them as they head back down to the arboretum. The lift stops for Engineer Scott, who looks delighted to see him. "Commander, you forgot these – You're goin' to need 'em if you want to do anything with that E716. That's difficult stuff to work with." He holds out two pairs of non-marring pliers. Spock takes them without comment and stands for a moment looking at them resting in the palms of his hands, before his long fingers curl around them, and lower them from sight. He nods.

But Scott has gone on to chat with Kyle.

In the Arboretum, the tree trimming party is in full swing, and the tree is beginning to look very festive – if a little bit of a jumble. Uhura laughs, and moves forward to sing for the assembled crowd waiting to put their decorations on the tree. The majority of the returning volunteers join her there, getting out their own ornaments, as well.

Unbidden, there has sprung up a small ritual to accompany this celebration. As each person steps up, he says something about his chosen decoration - tells a brief story of the item, what it represents, maybe its personal significance. People scope out spots for each others' ornaments, and take turns moving and holding the ladders, supporting their friends. Standing in their midst, the Captain is rapt, his eyes brilliant – He is trying to commit each moment to memory, cherishing what he is learning about his crew.

In contrast, Commander Spock sits alone, off to the side. He is obviously listening to what the others choose to say – he raises his head, occasionally, to glance at the crewmen's faces – but his memory is facile, and he does not need to concentrate to hear and remember. Instead, he directs his attention to what his fingers are forming from mottled gold-and-copper-colored wire.

Sulu walks over to talk to him; Spock looks up at his approach, then shifts a little, so that Sulu can join him on the bench. He has fashioned a figure comprised of a series of long loops and spirals arrayed along a central axis. He has cut some shorter lengths, and is curling the very ends of these with his fingertips before twisting them onto the figure's spine to form crossbars.

There is a loud burst of laughter over by the tree, and Spock raises his eyes briefly to observe those laughing people, without moving otherwise. Could he have understood the words preceding the laughter? Their context? The bitter-sweet emotion accompanying them?

In the months that they have worked together, Sulu has not given much thought to what motivates their Vulcan First Officer. Oh, he has ideas; but, really, he hasn't thought much beyond the man's intelligence and powerful curiosity. Spock is just Spock: He does his job, and minds his own business. Captain Kirk, clearly, trusts him implicitly; and, oddly, he's one of the Captain's closest friends.

Now, Hikaru wishes he understood the man better.

Looking down, Sulu finds the object taking shape before his eyes vaguely familiar. He tries to figure out what it looks like – some sort of petro- or geoglyph, perhaps - but thinks, then, that his mind is playing tricks on him, trying to make sense of something unfamiliar.

As a child, Sulu visited, several times, the Federation Member Planet exhibits. He had stared in fascination at the curious artifacts. The Vulcan scrolls reminded him of the ones cherished by his own grandfather, and he had wondered about their books - The strange writing intrigued him. Now, looking at the elegant wire figure twirling in long alien hands, he realizes that it isn't an icon or image, at all: It is a word. Commander Spock has written a message that only he - and one or two others, maybe, on this ship - will be able to read. Sulu is struck with a sudden sadness, and he wonders briefly whether their unemotional First Officer is ever lonely, or homesick. Surely, at this time of year, he must remember the Human woman who gave him life…

Sulu risks a glance at Spock's face, then wishes he hadn't. It looks just the same as always.

What does the man feel behind that placid, public face?

Spock looks up at him, just for an instant, before looking back down at his own moving fingers.

Sulu watches those fingers, then, too. Each movement is rapid yet careful, exhibiting typical Vulcan precision.

Spock has finished attaching the crossbars and is now using tiny fine strands of copper to wire small red crystals to their ends. Sulu thinks back to the Vulcan exhibit, remembering circular serifs, and dots floating alongside the unintelligible words.

A message, definitely. He wonders who is expected to read it…

Apparently, Spock has finished: He has threaded a delicate filament through the top of his figure, and with swift, sure movements, ties it securely into a loop. He sets the object aside, and gathers up the remnants from his task: Cutters, the spool of fine wire, the unused pliers Scotty had provided. He glances, then, at Sulu, and says, "If you will excuse me, Lieutenant?" before standing and moving toward the door.

Sulu wanders over to the group clustered by the tree. They shift a bit, to make room for him, and Sulu is grateful that he has made the effort to get to know so many of the crew. It would be so easy to stick with those he worked with, and not look beyond those few for friendship.

He is in time to see Timkins pull out an apple, relating a wistful tale of visits to an orchard with his cousins, and his aunt who died on the _Hood_. There is a small silence that extends after he has descended the ladder. The next person steps forward, and holds up his contribution. Each time, the small silence is repeated – and Sulu begins to understand how very much the crew needed these moments – this moment - together.

The crowd is starting to thin some, although people do still continue to trickle in – They probably will, Sulu thinks, for days. Now, though, they hang their ornaments, mill around for a minute or two, and leave - not lingering as long to watch others do the same. The evening is growing later, and the shifts have all changed.

In an unspoken agreement, however, certain members of the Command and Bridge Crews dawdle, as though waiting for some secret signal that it is their chance to participate, and not just lurk at the sidelines cheering the others on.

Sulu decides he'd better go get his own contribution, left carefully in his quarters where the delicate material would not get damaged. The Captain looks over, and smiles – Jim seems to realize what he is up to.

Hikaru hopes, a little, that they will wait for him.

When he returns, the crowd has dispersed, and there is only a small knot of very familiar faces lit by the radiant glow of the tree. The faces turn toward him and smile, and he realizes with a lift in his heart that they have, in fact, been waiting for him.

There is an expectant hush, then, and Lieutenant Uhura steps forward. She looks around at each of their faces, and her eyes are glistening, suspiciously bright. In that waiting stillness, then, she draws breath, and sings an ancient carol of hope and joy and peace. The hush continues when she has done, before the spell is broken: There is a gusty collective exhale, and they all turn to one another, and smile, and laugh, and embrace. There are more eyes glistening, and more than one sleeve drawn surreptitiously across them. Only Commander Spock seems entirely unmoved, standing unmoving in their midst. Yet, it is to him that Uhura goes when she has received all of their hugs and expressions of thanks, and he tilts his head toward her and says something very quietly that makes her smile.

The Captain makes a little speech, after that; and, with great ceremony once more, hangs his own ornament on the tree. His grin is self-mocking, when he is done; but it widens in delight at their obvious appreciation, and genuine joy.

Chekov is next, hanging his little Russian peasant doll with a bashful explanation.

Jakobsen's little plaited straw goat hangs unevenly on its red thread, but looks beautiful anyway, dangling high-up in a field of blue-green.

McCoy is gruff, and tries to mutter something grouchy, when it's his turn – but he can't keep the pretense going: He grins when Uhura hugs him and says something teasing.

One by one, they step forward, say a few words, pick a spot - climb the ladder, or lean or crouch to place something beautiful or special or homely on the tree. There might be a comment or a hug or a smile afterward from the onlookers; then they wait, in silence, for the next one to go.

It's down to Sulu, now. He steps forward and holds up the delicate sheet of rice paper. He has written the names of all of his family on the back, where they will be enfolded, as he makes his figure. He explains about Origami, and about the ancient tradition of The 1000 Cranes, folding as he talks. At the end, he holds up the finished crane, and places it ceremoniously on a branch. He is surprised, when he steps back, to hear Spock's quiet voice asking, "This is a wish, is it not, for World Peace?" Sulu nods, mutely, wondering how the other came to know the story of Sadako Sasaki.

Spock's answering nod seems to hold complete understanding.

It is clear the others think the unofficial ceremony has concluded, and they shift a little, preparing to disperse. All except Uhura, who stands still, looking at Spock, who is gazing at the tree, unheeding. After a moment, he seems to feel her eyes upon him, and looks around. When he steps forward, then - with straight-backed formal dignity - silence falls; and all faces are turned toward him - in surprise, in curiosity - in wonder.

He paces slowly around the tree, eyeing it, looking for the perfect spot to hang his ornament. When he finds an empty place, just above his eye level, he pauses – and they all gather around him. After a second, he reaches up and loops a filament over a tiny imperfection in the branch. His hands drop, and he moves to the side, so that they can all see. "_Sochya_," he says, and in his grave, solemn voice, it seems like a benediction. The ornament gleams red-and-gold in the light, revolving gently around that perfectly straight vertical axis, depending upon on its now-invisible supporting strand.

Spock steps back, and speaks again: "Peace."


	14. A Decorated Tree

_A Decorated Tree_

Sulu goes, later that evening, back to look at the decorated tree.

Uhura is already there, sitting with her knees drawn up, and her arms wrapped around them. He drops down to sit beside her.

She doesn't say anything; and as the minutes pass, he thinks she must be as mesmerized by its glory as he finds himself to be.

Looking at it, he feels his heart fill with delight.

The main lights of the room are off, and the small lights fixed on the tree make it glow: Magical – mysterious - against a velvet background of black.

He stares at it for a long time. He tries to look at each ornament, one by one – but the task is too large, and he finds himself reluctant to dismiss one to move to the next. It strikes him then, how unlikely it is that this thing should be here, looking like it does, way out in Space. He cannot contain himself, any longer.

"All different parts of Earth," he says, and there is wonder in his voice. He is quiet for a few seconds; then: "Look at it, Uhura, every continent is there, and how many nations?"

He glances over and sees tears swimming in her eyes. Her gaze appears to be fixed on the tree, and he tries to imagine what she is seeing there. Perhaps just its beauty? Well, that is cause enough.

"And – what – seven more planets, besides?"

"Six," she says firmly.

After a minute she stands; then silently leaves the room with deliberate, resolute steps. Sulu thinks maybe there was pain in her voice; and, pretty as she is in her party clothes, he doesn't have the heart to watch her walk away.

His eyes search the tree.

Earth, obviously.

Nene, Melva, Altair. He recognizes, easily, the symbols of those worlds, and thinks he knows which crewmen put them there. He thinks it's funny that Shaandra took the suggestion to 'pick something that represents Home' so literally – and suspects she passed that idea along.

The three interlocked rings surely have to have been put there by someone from Alpha Centauri.

Even the Tellurites have added to the tree.

He counts that up and comes to six.

He eyes the tree, dubiously; searches it some more. He knows there was something else.

He feels triumph, then, at Uhura's mistake: A triumph made more glorious, somehow, by the certain flatness of her voice as she said that single word – because there is one more ornament on that tree that he knows was not put there by human hands. And it is funny really, that it's the one he sees last - as though Uhura forgot it was there.

Seven.

"Peace," it says, in curling Vulcan script - a single figure fashioned by the only fingers on the ship strong enough to shape this particular wire in such a way. It is rotating slightly, suspended on its invisible strand; and it catches the light, and gleams.

The little red crystals wired to the arms catch the light, too. They form a halo orbiting that solitary Vulcan figure. It turns a little more, and the crystals glint fiercely like crimson phaser fire.

Or drops of human blood.

And Sulu knows then, why Uhura said "Six." And he knows she never forgot that solitary figure at all.


	15. Ornaments

_Ornaments_

Nyota wakes suddenly, and Spock is no longer beside her. It is dark and quiet. She listens but cannot hear him moving.

When she turns on the light, and surveys the room, blinking, he is not there.

Spock has slipped from his quarters, while she slept, so many times before that that is as much a part of her unconscious expectation as his presence would be. She knows with no doubt he will return before morning, to share her waking moments. He goes, and returns, always, silently - never disturbing her sleep.

She wonders what woke her, then, so completely; and cannot think what it could have been.

She dresses in the comfortable clothes she has left here in his rooms; and grabs a sweater – pulling it on as she heads out the door. Compared to his quarters, the corridors seem chilly; and her body cannot adjust in the same way his would.

All the evening, he had been too quiet, too still. She took that as a sign that the crew's celebration had come much too close – but whether his discomfort stemmed from the fact that it was alien to him, or familiar, she is uncertain.

But his thoughts, she suspects, were looking back, to his past – and, perhaps, his life with another Human woman: One who had sacrificed much to embrace the traditions of her chosen world, but still secretly delighted in all things of Earth - including Christmas.

As painful as that would be, she hopes, really, that that was where his thoughts tended. Other possibilities were even worse…

It is ironic – wrong in the devastating cosmic sense of wrongness – that a man so peaceful, so unwilling to admit to anything as violent, even, as emotion, should be missing the tranquil familiarity of a home ground to less-than-nothing, swallowed up by violence, and mourning for a serene like-minded people decimated in a disaster engendered by a heart engulfed in grief, madness and cruel calculating revenge.

She has witnessed Spock's struggle too many times, already, to not recognize the signs of his personal haunting.

He does not wish to bring pain to her, with the fact of his own, and so he is quiet. And tonight he stayed behind in solitude to seek a soul-deep serenity - once common, easy, now too oft-elusive - while she went to a friend's loud and boisterous revel in celebration of the season and the lighting of the tree.

When she returned, he was still kneeling in the muted heat and fragrant dimness of his quarters. Staring at that spare, motionless form, she dropped her bag, abruptly, and, stepping forward, kicked off her shoes. He immediately rose and moved toward her, embracing her with a touch that felt of something suspiciously like need.

Later, he did not murmur to her, as he often did, as they nestled together before she slept, or smoothe her hair or soothe her skin with warm feather-light caresses; but simply held her, still, and kept silence.

Now, he has slipped away - and she is wakeful.

If he has gone to work, to find peace, she will not disturb him. But she thinks maybe he has gone to the gym, and there she can be with him, support him, keep him company – even if he does not notice she is there.

But he is not in the gym.

She's not sleepy, yet; and her restless heart directs her feet once more to the Arboretum. She thinks maybe she can gaze upon the Christmas tree for a while – maybe come to terms with it – maybe forgive it for its unrelenting bright icy beauty.

Spock does not turn his head at the sound of her footsteps, but remains still, gazing at the tree. He appears so self-contained – so isolated in his composed self-sufficiency – as he sits on the ground, legs tucked neatly under him, looking up at it.

She wonders how much of his serenity – this present tranquility - is an illusion.

His strong calm face is illuminated by the reflected light of the glowing tree, and it strikes her that that mysterious beauty, too, is illusion – covering as it does with its easy glory something deeper and richer yet, of a real life hidden in a graceful green-and-black shell.

She wonders what he makes of the splendid garish mishmash of toys and trinkets draped with such utter gleeful abandon on an unsuspecting space-faring tree.

She kneels a few feet from him, gazing at him, her position an unconscious acknowledgement of his own cultural traditions. She takes in the lean profile she loves: The ears, the brows, his nose, his chin. She notices, once more, with pleasure, the fact that his mouth – so determinedly serious – yet has lips that curve up, naturally, at the corners, alleviating the severity of his expression. His eyes, the one thing that he often leaves ungoverned, frequently reveal so much of the man inside. At this moment, however, those eyes appear deep and black - mysterious; and she suspects that any thoughts he allows himself to think are in Vulcan.

She wonders whether he shall, perhaps, in his mastery, find a little mercy as well…

He turns his head, then, and their eyes meet, before he directs his, again, to the tree. He has made no comment, but he has acknowledged that she is here, with him.

It is enough.

She scoots a little, to sit beside him; and after a second his arm encircles her, drawing her close in against his body. She sighs, and leans in closer, yet, resting her head on his shoulder. She instantly feels herself begin to relax. In another moment, his other arm wraps around her, and he lifts her onto his lap. When she snuggles into him, fitting herself against him, he drops his chin onto her head, and stills once more.

They gaze at the tree together, in perfect silence; and time has no meaning, unwinding away toward dawn.

Finally, a lifetime later, she shifts her cheek against his chest, and says to him, "I thought maybe you'd bring your IDIC."

He shakes his head then, his tiny sideways Vulcan negative, and presses his lips to her hair. "No," he says.

"Too personal?" Her voice reflects her slight smile.

"Hmmm. Perhaps," he says, and she hears a smile, too, though it is not displayed outwardly upon his lips. His arms tighten around her, and she sighs with contentment and settles back.

"Well," she says, "this is perfect."

Looking at the deceptively simple symbol he placed on the tree, she thinks about it - and it becomes evident to her how very true that is. No one else on this ship, probably, would realize it or even bother to look beyond the obvious, but she does – and if the others just note the presence of one elegant Vulcan figure in the midst of a joyful, chaotic miscellany of varied human expression, perhaps that is all they need to see. Unconsciously, she shakes her head, as it rests against him; and he lifts two fingers to touch her chin and tilts his head to kiss her.

"Indeed."

She is starting to let herself immerse completely in his eyes, losing herself in their warm, expressive, red-brown depths - when they suddenly flick away, back up to the tree. When they meet hers again, one eyebrow twitches. "Bedtime, I think," he says, and a moment later he starts to unfold himself from around her. He stands, and reaches toward her to draw her to her feet. She doesn't let go of his hand until she is pressed against him, embracing him tightly. He has to free it to wrap his arms around her.

As one, they stand there for another minute, two, gazing at the tree, before she observes, with her voice on a razor's edge, "It's missing something."

Her tone makes him go very still, with that inward-drawing Vulcan restraint – Feeling that, she reaches one hand up to caress his cheek, her thumb smoothing the line of his brow. It lingers a moment, then one careful finger traces the outline of his ear.

She smiles, slightly, tears in her eyes, and reaches toward her own ear. She slips out her earring, and steps toward the tree. Standing on tiptoe, she stretches up and carefully hooks the earring over a crossbar of the ornament he made, where it dangles in the open center of one of the graceful curls.

When she steps back to him, she takes his hand, and starts toward the door. He is still looking at the figure, even as his feet move to follow her. He pauses, and glances, then, back over his shoulder – The tourmaline teardrop is no longer swaying, but hangs motionless at its heart, lit as if from within: A single, still, glowing point of apple-green surrounded – encompassed - by carefully crafted Vulcan peace.


	16. Hobbies

_Hobbies_

Jim Kirk is a man who is beginning to appreciate the importance of hobbies.

Right now, he's standing in the gym, panting, sweating from every pore. He has just had his ass handed to him, and he has never felt better in his life.

"Thanks, Sam," he says, to the sheepish crewman standing a little awkwardly beside him: He's obviously wondering whether the Captain means it. "I mean it."

And the crewman grins. "No problem, sir – It's kind of a hobby of mine."

"What, mopping up the floor with superior officers?" and, despite the words, Kirk's tone tells how really, truly okay it is.

"No, sir, I mean the sparring." Sam's eyes crinkle, just a little. "But now that you mention it…"

Kirk laughs, and he grabs a towel. "Let's do it again, sometime."

"Okay, Captain. Sure."

"But not too soon," and, giving his quirking smile, Jim is the sheepish one, then, "I can tell this is gonna hurt…"

The crewman laughs. And it truly is okay.

Two days later, Kirk's visiting Sickbay. Soreness has set in; and the doctor's frown worsens, as Jim winces with every movement – the whole while, telling him how great the sparring was.

"Jesus, Jim," the doctor grumbles, "You seriously gotta get a hobby."

"Come on, Bones, were you even listening?"

"Yeah, Jim – But I mean a hobby. Like a _hobby_ - something you do just because you like to. Everybody needs a hobby, Jim."

"Spock doesn't have a hobby," Jim shoots back, fast as lightning.

McCoy's glare is awesome. After a second, he finds words: "You comparing yourself to Spock, now?"

Jim laughs and relents. "What, you want me to take up crosswords or square dancing?"

"Maybe." And the doctor's voice is a little musing…

"Scotty likes reading technical manuals," Jim says, thinking he can distract Bones from lecturing him about 'all work and no play'. (Jim does like to play, but Bones rarely approves – This is something better left unmentioned, maybe.)

"Scotty also likes whiskey, but I wouldn't exactly call that a hobby, Jim."

True enough. He decides to make Bones laugh ('cause a Bones who is truly happy is not hypo-happy)…

"Knitting? Uhura knits." She does, too: He's seen her.

And the look Bones gives him, then, isn't happy. It's serious, and maybe a touch grim.

"Not a hobby, Captain." His voice goes quiet, even warning him off a little, "Somethin' else entirely, I do believe."

And Jim knows to drop that as fast as he can.

"Well, Bones, I'll think about it. Meantime, I'm doing okay." Bones is frowning a bit, but it's only at what Jim has just said. "And hey, you oughta be happy: I'm working out."

That gets him a bona fide Bones growl: "I don't think that being a human punching bag really counts, do you?"

Jim chuckles ruefully. "No, maybe not. But I'm gonna fence with Sulu, next." And he knows he should try harder, but he just can't resist: "That's a hobby, right?"

Moving out of the doctor's reach actually kinda hurts like hell.

So Jim spends a couple of days noticing what people do in their off-hours.

He sees at least 5 different board games, puzzles, and plenty of poker.

And, oh yeah, chess. Does everybody on the whole ship play chess, now?

There are people on-board who do bookbinding, woodcarving, lampworking; drawing, paper-folding, juggling.

Lots of people sew, or embroider, or quilt, or do things like that, that he had no idea people did.

There's an historian who paints portraits of guys long dead.

The biggest guy in Security de-stresses with needlepoint. And homebrew. Homebrew and needlepoint.

And a whole bunch of people use the pool.

One evening in a crowded Rec Room One, there's a tableau that looks staged for his study: Uhura's singing something bilingual that sounds romantic – but she has a wicked, knowing smile; Rand is turning cards for solitaire and listening, with a dreamy, wistful expression; others sitting nearby nod or tap their fingers (or toes) along with the song; Spock is doing paperwork a short distance away, alone in his quiet reserve – but when he glances up, just for an instant, Jim notices that his eyes reveal amusement. To one side, a few guys in red are drawing some sort of map or chart; Riley and Tormolen quietly argue the benefits of bowling - while the rest of the people in the room laugh, or chat, or play.

Once he starts looking, Jim finds no shortage of hobbies – and the variety is astounding, really, considering the limitations of being on a starship.

He talks to people who love cooking, reading, music. He watches basketball, racquetball, volleyball; tai chi, ballet, yoga.

Jim learns about poetry, photography, research of all kinds.

He is now quite up-to-date with the very latest findings on medieval European trade routes, and the care and feeding of bonsai.

Listening to people talk about their hobbies, he sees eyes light up, and people come alive.

Even Jakobsen manages to talk to the Captain in something above a whisper when he asks her what she's doing with a long piece of string. 'Naalbinding,' she tells him in the soft Swedish voice that has, up 'til now, been merely a pretty substitute for Vulcan at the ship's Science Station. Naalbinding: Whatever that is.

And Sulu? He discovers that the poster boy for hobbies hates that word.

"I don't have hobbies, Captain," Sulu says, and his voice is indignant. "I have _passions_."

Kirks agrees with that, with a grin – and the idea sticks in his mind.

That evening, at dinner, the conversation revolves around their last few missions, new personnel, and shoreleave. The usual things, really – but Jim Kirk finds himself listening to their individual voices. Uhura seemed tired at first, but Spock arrived moments after; and now, sitting beside him, she is being very clever. In fact, she's as funny as hell, even when she's clearly mocking Jim in several languages. Spock is almost silent, but he makes a comment in response to Sulu's observations about some plant-life they have recently encountered. Chekov is following them, and has something to say, too, that makes Sulu jump back in. McCoy arrives in time to laugh at Uhura's latest pun, and become the target for the next quip or two.

Scotty strolls up with Timkins and Watley, and it is obvious that, unless somebody steps in soon, the ship will be in trouble - in the midst of vast untested improvements. Jim laughs, then, at what they're suggesting; and their shocked expressions just make it better. Jim looks to Spock for support, and he's delighted by the Vulcan's easy ability to follow four conversations at once. The Science Officer's few measured words of pure reason make the Engineers' faces fall; and Scotty mutters, "Well, back to the drawing board for us, then," before wandering off with the other two in tow.

Uhura makes a comment; Spock's dry reply makes her retort with something very witty. His eyebrow rises, and she laughs.

After dinner, they all start to go their separate ways. Sulu's headed to the Botany Department; and Chekov goes out with Lissom and Carlisle, the three of them discussing some arcane mathematical theory.

Bones tries to tempt Spock with the weekly poker game; but with Uhura at his side, the Vulcan declines, yet again, the Doctor's insistent invitation. When McCoy mutters something deprecating, she just laughs. "Sorry, Leonard," she says, "You can't have him this time."

Jim watches Uhura leave alongside her dignified companion: His back is straight, and he paces with his usual decorum. Her step is light, almost dancing; and as she speaks, she gazes up at him, with a slightly teasing look. He replies serenely - He's not even glancing at her; yet she smiles, her face radiant.

Kirk turns to McCoy. "I think I was wrong, Bones."

The doctor snorts. "What's today's date?"

"No, seriously. I think Spock has a hobby."

"You mean besides chess and boring the rest of us half out of our ever-lovin' minds?"

"Yes."

Whatever he hears in Kirk's voice makes Bones look up, and follow his gaze. He chokes. "Jesus, Jim, I'm still eating, here."

Jim laughs: That glare is so worth whatever awaits at his next physical.

He looks at Bones indulgently. "You, my friend, are a dirty old man."

"Oh, yeah -?"

"Yeah," Jim says, and his tone carries an ironic hint of his Captain-voice. He shakes his head and is back to being just-Jim. "I was just going to say that his hobby has got to be making Uhura happy."

And with that - in spite of himself - McCoy is forced to grudgingly agree.


	17. Wool

_Wool_

It's become an extended-family project for the Uhura clan, collecting wool.

They don't really know why they are doing it – Sort of, but not really. It's just something that started when Nyota was at the Academy (no one quite remembers how, or when) and they've been doing it ever since.

(And he doesn't know they are doing it; but, still, he is one very smart man…)

Nyota knits; and as she does, she feels the love of her family in every millimeter of yarn that passes through her fingers and over her needles.

They travel a lot, her family; and as they do, they haunt the yarn shops, buying sock-weight wool in charcoal grey or black. _Sha'mi_ is best: The fine Vulcan wool, with its distinctive aroma, comes naturally in those colors (and in a lovely rich dark chocolate brown, too). If that is available, they will buy it. Though scarce, it's not truly rare yet - but they figure 'some day soon' - and they buy all there is, even if it's only a blend.

And in sweater weight, also, because they love Nyota, and she knits sweaters, too. (Uhura Clan logic is a logic of the heart.)

But if there's no _sha'mi_, they do the best they can: They buy sheep's wool and merino and alpaca, and sometimes blends with silk.

(And sometimes they throw in something frivolous, something bright and just for fun, remembering fondly - without regret - the time when that was what Nyota liked…)

The packages she receives are bulky and light, but overflowing with love and hope, and concern for her health and happiness.

And those wools will keep her busy on the long nights when he is away.

She will be busy on the nights he works late.

Her hands will be occupied as she sits by his bedside in Sickbay - and sometimes as they just sit together and talk, in the little time they have alone.

She knits him socks, from the wool they send, and she's made so many that it's a science, now: She can look at a yarn and know how many stitches to cast on - on which size needles - to make him socks that will hug his ankles, wrap his insteps, keep his toes nice and warm – to feel wonderful, like a lingering caress, between bare Vulcan skin and boots.

She knits him socks, and every stitch is formed from the constant love she has for him.

As she knits, her heart and mind whisper all of the words she cannot say as they work side-by-side, as they walk in the corridors, as they go about their days in the public eye.

She knits – as though love and silent whispers and hand-knit socks can bring him home in safety.


	18. Early Morning Meetings

_Early Morning Meetings_

He has a meeting with the scientists and technicians of the Physical Sciences Departments this morning. Though the hour is early, he does not silence his movements as he prepares for his day. He has recognized the sounds of Nyota's gradual waking, and knows she likes to hear him as he moves about the room.

She keeps her eyes closed, and lazily listens to those movements.

When she was small, she would listen sleepily to her mother as she got ready for her early morning appointments.

Mama kept the doors open, for air to circulate through the house; and some sounds – not all – would travel clearly.

Nyota could hear the water in the pipes as Mama washed her face, brushed her teeth.

Then Mama would move to the bedroom doorway, and she could hear the zing, zing, zing of the hairbrush. That sound faded, and Nyota heard the little clunk as she put the brush down.

There would be the sounds of drawers opening, closing; footsteps to the closet.

There was a long hush broken only by tiny little noises, as Mama put on her make-up. Nyota loved to watch that part, but was still too groggy to drag herself out of bed.

There was a small clatter and a jingle. Mama was choosing her jewelry. That tink-tink meant the big silver chain.

Bare feet walked to the shoe rack; heeled feet clacked away.

A few minutes later, she could hear, very faintly, the low rumble of her father's voice. She pictured him pretending to grumble at his wife's imminent departure – as he poured her a cup of coffee, added sugar and cream 'til it was just as she liked.

She heard her mama's laughter, then, and knew that that silence meant a kiss.

Breakfast sounds.

She heard more footsteps, and though she was now a bit more awake, she kept her eyes squeezed shut.

The footsteps came closer – and there was the smell of Mama's perfume, and an almost loud tink-tink in time with her body's swaying.

There was the sudden shift of the mattress beneath her as her mama sat on the bed. There – _there_ was the warmth of a soft body, as her mama leaned closer and whispered, "Wake up, sweet sleepy girl." There was the soft press of lips to her forehead. "You don't want to be late for school."

And Nyota would open her eyes on her mother's tender smile; and fling her arms around Mama's neck, and squeeze as tight as her small arms would go.

She has dozed off, listening, and struggles to wake as his footsteps come closer. "I'm up, I'm up," she protests, though it comes out merely as a yawn.

His scent is in her nostrils, then – clean, spicy, masculine – and his weight shifts the mattress.

This time the words come out: "I'm up, I'm up."

"No, beloved," he says, "You are not." And his voice is very deep, even when his words are quiet.

The kiss he gives her, then, is anything but soft, and she feels the heat and strength of his body – Her eyes open as he draws away.

His fingers reach to trace her hairline, her cheekbone, her jaw; her throat. He is watching his fingers moving over her bare skin; she watches his face.

He leans to speak again; and she flings her arms around him, and pulls him down for another long, deep kiss.

"I must go," he whispers in the silence after, and she feels his regret.

She nods, and releases him. As he moves to the doorway, straightening his shirt, she calls after him. "Spock, I'll see you in just over an hour."

And she hears with delight the mixture of pleasure and amusement in his voice - and the faintest hint of doubt - as he answers, before the door whooshes open: "I hope so."


	19. Russian Tea

_Чай_

The mother of Pavel Andreivich has sent him tea.

He thinks he can't explain it to anyone on the ship – although he has seen the others carrying packages, too.

When his mother tells him this idea of hers, he tries to explain that she need not do this thing. There is tea, all the time, from the galley, and it is considered a comfort of home.

He tells her that Kyle, who is English, and could be counted an expert on such matters, drinks it all the time.

But that tea, his very Russian Mамa says, can _not _be proper tea. She loves her son, she says, and a Russian son must have proper Russian чай.

So she bundles tea in with her other offerings, and sends it on its long, slow journey across the Orion Spur, to wait and wait at a Starbase for the _Enterprise_ to call.

The arriving box is not very large, but as he sifts down through the layers, it is a bit like going back in time: He holds each object as he lifts it out, and in each he sees his mother's reaction to a story he has told her. And in these objects he sees his journey unravel backward to the day he left. He sees, too, the things that struck his mother in what he has said; and perhaps he understands, now, her need to send him chai.

At the very bottom of the box is an awkward bundle. It is wrapped together, in grey cloth, and tied with a string; it is clear that his mother has put a little extra thought, and a little extra care, in to packaging its contents.

And when Pavel Andreivich opens that bundle, the past strikes him – and unforeseen glimpses of the present. He finds himself weeping, weeping without restraint - and so very glad the package came.

Oh, he is glad to be the son of a Mama who delights in sending proper tea.

Later that evening, Pavel goes to the Officers' Mess, to eat with some of the Bridge Crew. Some of them received packages today, also, and he sees it in their faces: Some subdued, some reminiscent, some a little more cheerful yet. He is glad he is not the only one to receive a package – and he suspects that he is not the only one who has felt all three things, this one day.

The Captain arrives, just the same as always - Lieutenant Uhura, too. They come in talking about bureaucracy and regulations and red tape; and listening to Miss Uhura, Chekov knows she's had a busy day. She must be tired, he thinks, but she hopes you cannot tell that is the case. The Captain says something about cargo and manifests – and when he says 'organize' and 'most efficiently,' Chekov knows Mr. Spock has remained on the Bridge, and may be there some time.

Chekov doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but he appreciates that the Captain doesn't mind their interest in all things concerning the ship: If something is confidential, it is kept that way - and they have all learned to look away and not listen, when the Captain and the First Officer are conversing like _that_.

This evening, Lieutenant Uhura does not linger in the Officers' Mess, to wait.

After he finishes his meal, Pavel returns to his quarters. He is a little unsure, but eventually decides what to do: He takes his padd, and the grey bundle, and goes back to the Officers' Mess. The room is clearing out, and soon it is deserted.

He reads for a long time, and wonders whether he has made a mistake.

Then Commander Spock arrives. He stands at the doorway a moment, as he often does, then goes to get a tray. He sits in his usual spot and slowly eats his dinner, in his mindful, deliberate way. Watching him, Chekov wonders what he's thinking. He wonders whether the Commander minds being so much alone.

And when the Commander finishes, and rises to clear his tray, Chekov stands and goes toward him.

Mr. Spock stops, then, and waits for Chekov to approach. He does not say anything, but Chekov has learned to talk with this Vulcan, and does not feel his silence is forbidding.

"Sir," Chekov asks, "I wonder – do you have a minute?"

And Commander Spock nods. He makes a small gesture, and Chekov knows it is an invitation to sit, and converse.

So Chekov sits, looking at this man that he has learned to call a friend. And though he is not sure what he should say – his Standard seems so faulty, all of a sudden – he tries to tell Spock anyway.

"Commander, uh, - "

And Spock just waits patiently for Chekov to gather himself, and his thoughts.

"I received a package, today, and… Sir, my mother sent some things." And Chekov feels embarrassed to be saying this, and overwhelmingly awkward at his words, but he presses on because he knows it can't really get any better. "I know it must seem peculiar," Chekov says, "but…"

And Chekov trails off: Mr. Spock is nodding, and Chekov wonders whether he really understands.

But Spock is speaking now, and that calm level voice says, "Human mothers enjoy expressing affection for their off-spring, and have an innate need to do so. It is fitting, then, that they should indulge this need. Providing for their children's comfort - particularly in times of distress or separation, when their well-being can not be more directly assured - is one such outward expression."

And Chekov is no longer so embarrassed, though he still does feel awkward, so he quietly answers, "Yes, Commander. Thank you."

But Spock has not finished, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little softer, and Chekov has a hard time meeting his eyes. "Yours, Ensign, has much to be proud of. It is only right and natural that she should choose to do so, as well."

The awkwardness is crushing: Chekov can only clear his throat and mumble, "Thank you, sir," before he rises and goes to collect the bundle.

When he returns with it, he feels Mr. Spock's eyes on him, and he hopes he does not look as clumsy as he feels. When he gets within an arm's length, he holds the package out, and as the Commander's hands slowly come up to take it, Chekov can feel the heat rising from them. Cautiously, so that he does not touch the Vulcan's skin, he places the bundle in careful hands.

He steps back a little, to give the Commander some space. He feels those brilliant eyes flick up, and he meets them as best he can. Then he looks down again, although he knows Commander Spock is still scrutinizing his face.

He moves to his chair and sits. After a moment, those long pale Vulcan fingers reach to pull the string, and, when they start to fold back the fabric, Chekov has to look away.

There is a long silence; and when it grows too long, Chekov finds breath and says, "She found it in a shop in Moscow."

He looks up to see the Commander nodding, not the tiny Vulcan nod Chekov has seen a thousand times, but a long one - almost a Human one.

Chekov suspects that, once again, his actions have brought sorrow to one who has seen enough of it – but he hopes he has brought comfort, too.

And Commander Spock's eyes close; and he is silent and still for one second more, before he says, quietly, evenly, in a language that Chekov did not know he could understand, "Я высоко ценю Ваше внимание, Павел Андреевич. И, пожалуйста, сообщите об этом матери, что я благодарю ее за Вулканский чай."

Wordlessly, speechlessly, Pavel nods; and gathering his padd, takes his leave. At the door, he turns, thinking to speak – But the Commander has not moved: He still holds the awkward grey bundle in careful Vulcan hands, and his dark head is bowed.

As he walks back to his quarters, Pavel Andreivich wonders whether he should tell his mother that the ship's First Officer has called him by name, and expressed appreciation to him for his thoughtfulness - or whether this is something he can keep, just for himself.

But he knows he will write, tonight, to say "Commander Spock says to tell you 'thank you for the Vulcan tea.'"


	20. Balm

_Balm_

Nyota Uhura is furious. Really, she is exhausted and frustrated and worried and sad, suffering from the aftermath of fear – and so, in her head, she says she is furious.

She snatches up the offending items from the bureau in Spock's quarters, and marches down to Sickbay.

Doctor McCoy is reading in his office, leaning back in his chair. He has already done his morning rounds, and is satisfied with his patients' progress. So, now, he enjoys the respite.

His respite is brief: A slim dark-haired fury storms into his office, places two items abruptly on his desk, and glares. He glances at the things, then up at her; and slowly lowers his reports. His eyebrows rise.

She says nothing, waiting - her hands upon her hips, her chest rising and falling with the anger in her breath.

McCoy is understandably cautious. "Good Morning, Miss Uhura."

She glares, still, and shifts her weight impatiently to the other foot.

"May I help you? Is there a problem?" And something in her face makes him rise to his feet. He moves toward her: He can imagine what her day was like, yesterday. And he had seen Spock when the Vulcan came back to the ship; he spent over an hour tending those wounds.

McCoy is concerned, now; but he has to tread carefully. It is important to not appear to make assumptions – that would only distract her. He takes another small step closer, gently places one hand on her back, drops his voice. "Has something happened to Commander Spock?"

She is trying, now, to hang on to her anger. If she lets it slip, she will cry. And crying would be too revealing. "Yes." She stomps her foot; then pauses, crossing her arms (shrugging off his solicitous hand in the process). "Damn it. Yes." She has spent a lot of time in Spock's company, and that shows, even in her emotional state. She paces three steps away, comes back halfway. She drops the pose in a gesture all her own. "You saw him. You know…"

And, of course, he did – and does. Spock had returned with a gash on his cheek and lacerations across his fingers, palms, and forearms. There were deep ones ragged on his side, hidden under layers of uniform – (He was, McCoy realized afterwards, bleeding enough to be thirsty) – and still he had said nothing. He had said nothing; just waited his turn, after all of the more urgent – or more vocal – patients.

He had silently left, at the end of his treatment, refusing to stay overnight for observation - though the doctor had tried to insist.

Now McCoy understands his stubbornness on that account: The whole time, Uhura was waiting, waiting alone. Leonard hadn't thought of that; he should have found some way to let her know. Like Spock's injuries, the hidden pain was the worst.

Just for an instant, he takes thought to damn Vulcan stoicism…

She blinks and looks away, takes a big breath. She glances at the doctor's desk – She frowns, balls her hands into fists, and looks McCoy furiously in the eye for a second, before glaring at the wall. "He's just being so _stupid_!"

Leonard's not sure what to say, and so: "Come, sit down," he says, holding the back of the visitor's chair invitingly. She glances at him; then walks over, sinks into it.

He slowly goes around his desk – allowing her a little time to gather herself – and lowers himself into his seat. He leans back in the chair - The message is plain, if she chooses to read it: He has all day. "Tell old Uncle Len all about it," he says gently.

She shakes her head, then buries her face in hands that tremble slightly. After a minute, she sighs, and straightens, wipes her eyes with the backs of her fingers. Finally, she meets his gaze. She smiles, just the littlest bit, wanly.

His heart turns over in his chest.

Now he's smiling back at her a little, too, encouragingly. He waits for her to speak.

She reaches forward and picks up the small sliver of white that she had put on his desk. It looks like soap. She cradles it in her palm a moment - holds it up with her fingertips - seems to breathe in its scent. "This one is called _elmuvak na'neshlar t'vik-morsu__." _She hands it to him._ "_I say '_na'nesh_,' and he knows what I mean."

McCoy takes the sliver, looks at it, turning it over and over with his fingers: It is waxy, creamy, like a salve in solid form. His body heat is not high enough to make it melt on contact, but he suspects that it would do so when drawn across Spock's skin. It is fragrant, spicy almost, with a hint of that familiar something that seems to infuse everything Vulcan. Holding it, he looks over at Uhura.

She sees the question in his eyes. "It's a balm," she states, "'for warriors,' he says - made of resin, and wax, and oils, combined. The herbs are all Vulcan, too – healing herbs from ancient times." She looks away from the sliver, down at her own hands, which she must consciously still. "This one is good for healing open wounds and broken skin."

McCoy hears Spock's voice in what she says, but hears pain, too. He has the vague feeling that if he examines this too closely, it might violate some strict sense of privacy. He nods, making no comment.

He is thinking of all the times Spock has come back to Sickbay with fading scars healing faster, cleaner than expected...

He glances up, and meets her gaze: She has been watching him. She nods toward the sliver. "This is all he has left."

McCoy nods – He understands; and now he understands the pain in her voice. He puts the sliver down, considering.

After a long moment, he picks up the pot. It is made of carved translucent stone, and he is reminded of some jars from an Egyptian exhibit he went to, once, as a kid. He takes off the lid, peers inside – The contents are golden in color, just as fragrant as the other, if slightly different. The jar is almost empty.

Uhura is speaking, and she tries to make her voice uninflected: "That one is the companion, _elmuvak na'wadi-yareklar t'vik-morsu_, the warrior's balm for unbroken skin. _na'Wadi-yarek_ is applied to bruises and sprains, but also over muscles that will tighten, and areas that will need to heal deep within."

McCoy nods. Again, he senses the Vulcan words that she's not saying; and he wonders, just for a moment, whether Spock would be annoyed that she brought these things to him.

"There is a third, _elmin na'kusut t'dvunek_, an oil used for sore or tight muscles and for aching. But it is good for the skin, too."

She is watching his face; and when she speaks, her voice is pure Uhura. "I don't know how these things work, but they do. Really, that's all I need to know."

He wonders whether his expression revealed his skepticism. He hopes not: It's not really skepticism, exactly. He just finds this - well, a contradiction with the Vulcan's avowed devotion to logic.

Once more he has that vague feeling of glimpsing something deeply private, and old…

She stands and walks away a step or two. He waits for her to turn; but she starts speaking again with her back to him. "It's traditional Vulcan medicine, and it's almost like they help him focus his own healing, or something. Sometimes, I…" She tilts her head up, looking at the ceiling. Leonard suspects that she's blinking back more tears.

Her voice is mostly under control, and stronger, when she continues resolutely: "He won't talk about it any more.

"I think he plans to just use these until they are gone, and that'll be that."

She is silent for a few minutes, and her back is rigid, tense. She turns back toward him. "I've tried different oils, adding calendula and arnica and – well, all of the healing things from Earth that I have read about and been able to find…" He can see the frustration and need in her eyes. "But none of them are the same."

She tries to smile; she manages a small one, a little wry, inviting him to find some humor: "I even have Sulu growing things for me in the Botany Department, for heaven's sake!

"But no matter what I do, it's just not good enough, not right." She comes back to the visitor's chair, and perches on its edge, her fingers knotting together in her lap. "I can't get the Vulcan herbs, can't even find out if they still exist." Her voice is reluctant; she is looking away. After a pause, he sees she's blinking again at the ceiling. It is another second before she speaks, and he has to listen to catch the words. "I can't ask him, can't ask him to find out."

McCoy is no longer thinking of Spock, and green blood trickling on pale flesh. Instead, Leonard is watching this very human woman who loves him so completely; and the doctor sees how helpless and vulnerable she is feeling beneath her thin-stretched skin of anger and determination. Uhura is not used to helplessness: He wonders whether she has realized, now, how Achilles might have felt. But, of course, Achilles was not waiting in safety for his one weakness to come home.

Without thinking, he says, "I see."

She leans toward him, just a little bit, and turns her eyes on him, "Do you?"

"I think so." Leonard takes time to consider his words. "I won't pretend to understand Vulcan mumbo jumbo..." He looks into her enormous eyes, willing her to see his sincerity: "But I do know there is something there: Something that I don't understand, okay? Spock has healed from things that should have killed him, or left him - " That's a thought he'd prefer not to finish.

She nods.

She stands with a sudden movement, and as she steps away, Leonard is abruptly reminded of Spock, once more. She paces back again, and stands over the desk. She reaches out and touches the alabaster-like pot with one careful finger, and looks up to see him watching her. She snatches her hand back immediately, and her lips compress into a grim line.

When she speaks, he is ready for her clipped, angry words: "We are on a starship, right?"

He nods.

"Yeah," she says. "Thanks."

And she continues, with tightly controlled derision, "I was beginning to wonder. I mean, it's not like we don't have state-of-the-art scientific facilities or anything – the best brains in the fucking Federation, right?" She looks at him for confirmation, so he nods, again. "Good. Because it seems to me that the very best of them has lost his fucking _mind_."

He doesn't want her to say anything she's going to regret: "Listen, Uhura, if Spock –"

"_Fuck_ Spock." Her voice is savage. She leans on the desk, her fingertips white where they press on the flat surface. "He has some noble Vulcan sense of honor or something that won't let him do this: It's just for him – way out here it won't help anybody else – so he can't justify wasting his time or the ship's resources.

"Well, I don't care. It seems simple, enough, to me: That stuff works. I want more of it."

She turns and stalks away that familiar couple of paces; and when she turns back, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, she is formidable. "Listen, McCoy. You are a doctor. You need to make this happen. Frankly, I don't care if you get the whole Chemistry, Botany and Xeno-Biology Departments in on it. If that means Spock has early morning meetings from now until next Christmas, it'll serve his stubborn ass right." Her hands are on her hips, now, and though her foot doesn't stomp, he still feels that movement. "You hear me?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good." And as she turns and marches out, Uhura is anything but helpless.


	21. Bedside Manners

_Bedside Manners_

Nyota Uhura came to Sickbay this morning, worried about Spock; and her visit has left Leonard unsettled - with a steadily increasing sense of unease.

It's a not unfamiliar feeling, but it's an unwelcome one – and one, he is learning, it always pays to heed. There is a definite and, somehow, appropriate irony, he thinks, to the fact that - where Vulcan reticence is concerned - human intuition (backed-up with willful defiance of logic) is one of his most useful tools.

Well, in this case, he'll take what he can get.

A few hours later, the surgeon waits at his desk, reviewing the last of the previous night's charts. The ship's Chief Medical Officer has summoned the ship's Chief Science Officer to the Main Bay of the Medical Facilities for evaluation and additional treatment.

The fact that the latter responds promptly is a cause for renewed concern: The doctor had been thoroughly prepared to get high-handed; and wonders, quite frankly, why it wasn't necessary. Either Uhura had relayed the message in a way that indicated Spock would incur her displeasure if he didn't go right away (and if that is the case, McCoy is sorry he missed it) - or the Captain had ordered him directly.

Or…

Honestly, McCoy doesn't like the idea of a third possibility.

He isn't sure which approach will be most effective with the _Enterprise_'s exceedingly logical (yet apt-to-be-recalcitrant) Second-in-Command; so he just climbs to his feet, when the Vulcan walks in, and leads the way to a biobed in the least-occupied part of the Bay. "Up here, Commander," he says, with as neutral a tone as he can manage.

Spock maneuvers himself to sit at the precise center of one side of the bed.

McCoy notes the long hands fitted lightly over the edge of the bed's padding, and thinks perhaps the other's motion was not as fluid as usual. The doctor doesn't say anything, however, and he draws the curtains closed around the bed.

He still hasn't decided what tack to take; he stands a moment, surveying his most docile (and tied-with-Jim-Kirk-for-'most-troublesome') patient.

The Vulcan looks thinner, maybe; thin. His face is set, and a little drawn; his eyes, his hands are motionless. Spock is not staring at him expressionlessly as usual, and again McCoy feels that tiny wave of fear. No, Spock is not staring at him: He is looking down at the floor, somewhere near the doctor's boot heels.

Leonard sighs.

Disquietingly discerning eyes are directed to him, then; and not quite knowing what he should say, McCoy just gestures with his chin. "Shirt."

Spock says nothing. He starts to remove his blue tunic; and after a moment, remembering the injuries lying beneath, Leonard steps forward and reaches to help him.

And Commander Spock lets him help.

McCoy's tiny wave of fear grows stronger.

He thinks to turn up the ambient temperature in the immediate area - and to begin warming the biobed.

Still, Spock says nothing.

McCoy steps back, for a few seconds, to observe him again – and in those seconds, he thinks of Uhura's visit that morning: Her slow sink into the visitor's chair; her head tilted back, as she blinked at the ceiling; her fingertips white on his desktop. Looking away, Leonard forces the vivid images from his mind. As clearly as he can, he calls up the most boring lectures he can remember from Med School: Dry, dry talks on failed reform and malpractice insurance and lists of outmoded drugs. Then, he steps forward to touch Spock's skin.

The uneven cuts on the pads of the fingertips are beginning to knit together fairly well – better than expected, in fact; though, now that McCoy thinks of it, maybe he should have been revising his expectations, all along.

The others, though? Not so much – so maybe not.

Spock's right palm has split open along two of the angry jagged tears, and Leonard hisses a little as he sees it. Spock, he knows, reported here from his post on the Bridge – and this has to hurt. It has to hurt a lot. (The hiss has earned him an expressionless Vulcan stare - At last: The first of the day.) He sprays the other's outspread palm with topical analgesic. As he cleans it, Doctor McCoy thinks of his upcoming Medical Department Meeting with his very efficient superior officer and, at last, has something to say. "I don't suppose I could convince you to take a couple of days off - to let this heal, Boss, huh?"

This quip earns him a one millimeter lift and drop of a single straight black brow - and a firmly uttered, "No."

The second shirt is removed a little less smoothly - and McCoy is glad he thought to heat the bed.

There is no close-fitting thermal layer, now, under Spock's uniform, and the reason is shockingly plain.

In the course of the time that McCoy has been treating the First Officer of the _Enterprise_, the doctor has learned a few things about Vulcans (some more useful than others). The one of particular interest at the moment is that their dermal tissue contains a much higher concentration of nerve endings per square centimeter than does that of Humans. As long as that neural network remains intact, it functions as, essentially, an additional sensory organ - one as highly developed as any other the Vulcan possesses. This, McCoy suspects, is part of Spock's astonishing acuity - and it is certainly a part of his telepathic ability.

On the other hand - when damaged - the pain signals, surely, are increased to a commensurate degree…

Pain suppression is one of the essential Vulcan mental disciplines.

Since Spock is so stubborn about discussing pain at all, however, McCoy has never asked him directly to what degree is he affected - and really, he wonders how they can even discuss such things without a common frame of reference.

Meanwhile, whenever Spock is treated in the ship's medical facility, the Chief Medical Officer tries to remain aware of the stoic First Officer's sensitivities – and to anticipate, as best he can, the other's unstated need for privacy, quiet, heat, peace…

Looking, now, at the open tears across the Vulcan's lean muscular side, the phrase 'flayed alive' comes to mind.

He can't even imagine how Spock must be feeling – how he managed to work until summoned to Sickbay. If he were Human, he would hardly have been able to walk out of the facility the previous evening under his own power, much less do anything more.

It occurs to the doctor that he really, really, needs to convince the other to stay.

Spock's bandages were all removed at some point; and as he touches a section of pale unshredded skin near the first of the oozing lacerations, McCoy stops himself from thinking he knows why. But now Leonard is picturing Uhura again, and he backs away a few steps - then decides this would probably be a good time to grab a few things, and maybe make a call to the Bridge. "Just relax, Commander," he says, before retreating around the edge of the curtain.

Uhura answers, of course - her tone professional, just the same as always; and his side of their conversation conveys an overly detailed message ostensibly meant for Jim. "… Would you ask the Captain to step down here, when he has a moment? … Let him know I am going to be keeping his Science Officer for a little bit, will you? … Oh, no, nothing major … And just when he has a minute… No, really, Commander Spock will be fine."

'That should do the trick,' he thinks, when the call is complete. He tells Chapel to send in the Captain when he manages to make his way down.

He shakes his head, frowning - bluntly rejecting her too-eager offer of help - and is not really sure why he does.

And he remembers to grab a hypo, and some more bandages - and a few tubes of derma-glue - before he makes his way back to Spock.

The air temperature is now several degrees warmer in the curtained area around the occupied biobed, and when McCoy has deposited his things on the rolling tray, he turns to survey his silent patient once more. He notes that the Vulcan hasn't moved at all.

He wonders idly when he will get so familiar with Vulcan communication patterns that he will be as used to nods and silences and stillness as he is to Human groans and complaints and wincing. The thought makes him stop in his tracks.

He goes out to grab a lightweight blanket from the nearby cabinet. Stepping back in, he shakes it out matter-of-factly, and drapes it around Spock's shoulders.

He tells himself that that is Human-to-Vulcan non-talk for 'you are going to be here a while, so start getting used to the idea.'

Clear enough?

After a moment, Spock nods one of his tiny nods, and reaches his left hand across his body to pull the blanket more closely around him. He doesn't stop it from slipping down a little on the left side, and Leonard sees that as a capitulation – or an acknowledgement, anyway, that this examination is inevitable.

The doctor prepares a hypo; and as he does, Spock speaks. "That will not be necessary."

McCoy glances over at him, his eyebrows rising. "What?"

"Pain medication. It will not be necessary."

McCoy has finished; and he steps a little closer, drawing his patient's attention. "Oh, I dunno, Spock," he says, pressing the instrument gingerly against the skin just above the worst laceration. The rest of his words follow, as he depresses the plunger to administer the hypospray: "You just might piss me off."

The long Vulcan eyebrow goes up, and its owner nods – a real nod.

McCoy finds himself grinning.

The grin doesn't last five minutes: After another application of topical, he is now at leisure to examine the insides of Spock's forearms – compared, anyway, to the night before. He feels a shiver go up his spine; and wishes, just a little, for the previous evening's adrenaline-fueled clinical objectivity. A little deeper, a centimeter lower or closer in, and a major artery would have been severed, a tendon sheared clear through. Spock could have so easily not made it back… As it is, this wound is ugly, and will need careful attention. Leonard consciously wills his hands to not shake, as he cleans the gash once more.

He wraps the wrist in fresh white gauze, and is admonishing his patient strenuously when the Captain arrives. They can hear Chapel's voice, out there, directing him. "I mean it, Spock," he says, as dark eyes shift from him to the edge of the curtain, where Kirk will appear. It's clear he's already lost the Vulcan's attention.

Jim ambles in, with a fairly convincing studied-nonchalance. His eyes go immediately to his First Officer. They linger, there, appraisingly, a moment, before the Captain crosses his arms and shoots a glance at McCoy. He asks in his best 'unconcerned' drawl, "So, what's going on, guys?" His questioning gaze returns to Spock's expressionless face. "Spock, you okay?"

Spock's eyes shift to the doctor for a moment, then back to Jim. They move to a spot some two feet to Jim's left as he waits for the doctor to speak.

"No," McCoy says, in a drawl of his own, stepping forward to take control of this conversation. "Captain," he says, and his voice is mid-way between 'friend' and 'reporting Medical Officer', edging toward the latter by the time he's done speaking, "I am going to have to insist that Commander Spock stay here a day or two for observation and recuperation."

Both of the other men start to speak at once; and they both fall silent in the same instant, when McCoy raises his hand. "Listen." Two sets of wary eyes, one brilliant blue, one deep and brown, are focused on him. He turns first to the brown.

"I am being serious here. If you keep moving around, you are just going to keep shredding skin and tissue - faster than I can glue it. You're missing skin already - and some of those cuts are deep… If you just sit tight for a few days, and cooperate, I might be able to fix you up so you don't look and feel like shit when you finally get out."

Now he looks at the blue. "You." The blue eyes blink. "You tell him."

Jim starts to speak, but McCoy interrupts. "Just be quick about it - because I have to get to work: I already gave him something for the pain, and I don't need it to wear off while you discuss what's going on on the Bridge or some damn thing."

Kirk's mouth closes, and he nods, before turning to Spock. "You heard him, Commander." His voice is determinedly brisk, no nonsense.

"I did, sir," Spock confirms.

"Three days," McCoy says quickly.

Both pairs of eyes are looking at him, and he wonders if he's pushed his luck too far. But blue eyes turn away, back to rich red-brown. "That is 72 hours, Commander. You are relieved of duty."

Jim is trying to avoid staring at the open wounds trickling thin green fluid freely down Spock's side – Leonard can tell, from the way he blinks.

The Vulcan nods. "Yes, Captain," he says, and the crisp redundant words draw the Captain's attention back to his impassive face.

Kirk's voice is rough, his words a little clipped, "Good. Just so we're clear." He turns to McCoy. "Are we good?"

McCoy nods. "Yep." He nods again, looking from one man to the other. "I think that about covers it."

And Kirk gives a curt nod of his own before turning on his heel and retreating back to the Bridge.

After he leaves, Spock and McCoy look at one another. The silence lasts long after Jim's footfalls fade to nothing.

Leonard is caught between a desire to apologize, and a desire to emphasize his victory. In the end, he just goes to wash his hands.

At least Spock is cooperating. His movement is awkward as he bends to undo his boots; and his arm is pressed against his side as he removes them. He makes no comment, just undresses the rest of the way, while McCoy prepares a second hypo.

Remembering the gashes along the other's flank, the doctor readies a third, while he's at it.

The first spray goes into the Vulcan's thigh, near a pair of long untidy green-weeping furrows; the second, high on his hip: '_That_ must hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,' Leonard thinks, choosing the likeliest spot.

Spock's head is angled, so he can see what McCoy is doing as the doctor cleans and seals the simplest wounds.

Leonard can't imagine anyone wanting to watch a surgeon work on his own body - but the Science Officer looks exactly like he's checking the progress of a mildly interesting chemistry experiment. It's bizarre.

Now McCoy is tending the more complicated injuries. He takes a moment to rest and stretch. He wishes, just a little, that he had let Chapel assist with the easy stuff; but no - looking at Spock's exposed, torn flesh - he really doesn't, at that. In addition to the lacerations evident before, there is quite a bit of bruising. And that damage – combined with nakedness interrupted only by pressure strips and bands of clean white gauze - makes Spock seem especially vulnerable. No, he's very glad Chapel isn't helping.

He looks at Spock's face, with sudden sympathy. "How're we doing?"

The only response is a pointed look at the doctor's hands, and eyes directed to his own tattered skin.

"Yeah, I'm with you, there," McCoy says. "I'm working on it."

Leonard has left the worst places for last.

He mostly keeps himself from hissing, as he works. 'Sonuvabitch, sonuvabitch,' he thinks, trying to find enough whole skin to even glue. He uncurls a twisted flap, and presses it against oozing green with one careful finger, before doing the same to the opposite edge.

Son. of. a. bitch.

Poor Spock - This has to have fucking _hurt_.

Leonard's hands slow, as an unwelcome wave of compassion washes over him.

He breathes, a minute, trying to shut out the sympathy and regain focus. He delicately holds several fragments in place, and reaches for the glue; as he does, he raises his eyes for a quick glance – Deep brown Vulcan eyes are dispassionately observing every move the Doctor's hands are making.

McCoy finds the cool awareness in those eyes disconcerting. His hands still and his chin lifts as he looks full into his patient's face - Spock's gaze follows that movement, then, too; and their eyes meet. Leonard keeps the defensive sarcasm out of his voice as best he can: "You want me to get you a mirror, sir, so you can see better?"

"Yes."

At that, McCoy throws his hands up in disgust. "I was kidding."

Spock's voice is even. "I was not."

No kidding.

There is a long pause before McCoy manages to spit out an idle threat: "I didn't give you so much pain killer, Mr. Spock, that I can't still hurt you."

"Yes," the cool voice immediately responds, "I am aware of that."

Struck speechless, outraged, McCoy glares a moment before stomping off to borrow a mirror from Chapel. He doesn't try to explain why he needs it, and he is seriously annoyed with Spock for putting him in that position. 'There goes any sympathy I might have had for you, you pig-headed green-blooded -' He stops.

Holding the mirror, he stops right there, halfway between a very curious Head Nurse and a waiting Vulcan patient – a Vulcan patient very tired, no doubt, of being an object of pity and curiosity.

Huh. Clever.

Very, very clever.

Anger's better than pity, any day – Even a doctor knows that.

Well.

He steps back into the warm air surrounding Spock's biobed, and goes to wash his hands. He sterilizes the mirror, while he's at it; then hands it to Spock. He pulls the blanket closer around the long, lean shape.

The whole time, he's thinking of failed medical reform, malpractice insurance, lists of outmoded drugs.

As he quietly finishes his work, he occasionally angles the mirror Spock's holding, and moves his hands out of the way so that the Vulcan can really see. McCoy checks the wounds one last time, then leaves them uncovered (dry, dry – boring, boring) – at least, for the meantime.

When he's done, he looks up, catches Spock's eye. "That's it," he says; and he wonders whether Spock is relieved.

He takes the mirror, and holds it, then, so that the other has a good view. He runs his finger gently, gently, along the edge of the worst laceration. "Feel that?" he asks.

Spock nods.

"Okay. That one's the worst. I numbed it some, but that will fade. It's deep. You want details?" And when Spock nods, Leonard thinks boring thoughts, to keep himself from thinking how awful this is. He moves his fingers away from Spock's skin, and - Oh, God - he gives him details.

He does the same for the other injuries he's left uncovered, and Spock just nods his understanding.

Dry, dry, dry – boring, boring, boring.

When they are done, he helps maneuver Spock further up onto the bed, and cautiously supports him as he eases back to a prone position. Leonard pulls the blanket up to cover all of that bare and tortured skin; then goes and gets a second, larger blanket, spreading it carefully over the Science Officer's supine form.

McCoy breathes a small sigh of relief: Mission accomplished.

He sits, then, on the rolling stool for a moment, and considers. He unlocks the wheels, and pushes himself along so that he can lean his elbows on the edge of the bed and see Spock's face when the Vulcan turns his head to look at him. Leonard's voice is quiet, his tone confidential. "Listen, Spock. I am going to make a deal with you." Spock is eyeing him, noncommittally – but he is listening.

"You focus your what-ever-it-is on those I showed you. Get them to start healing from the inside, out, and I'll let you go before the 72 hours are up, okay?"

Spock is nodding.

"If not, not. It's up to me, though, to decide how you're doing - You got it?"

Spock nods.

"Good. I'm going to leave you a chair, here, in case you have a visitor, and strict orders that you are not to be disturbed." He allows himself a small conspiratorial grin. "Will that work for you, Commander?"

One mobile black brow is rising, and there is a glint of amusement in the other's dark eyes. It is clear they understand one another: He nods.

"Okay, then." McCoy stands, crosses his arms. "I will be back at ten thirty tonight to put on bandages. That's 22:30 to you, sir. I'll bring you some clothes, too – but you are to stay put. You got that?"

Spock nods, again.

"Good. Just so we're clear: You put one toe out of line, and all deals are off."

"I understand completely, Doctor McCoy."

"I hope so, Mr. Spock. I have people telling me all the time how smart you are - So we'll just see, won't we?" He starts to leave, then turns back, his hand on the curtain. His voice is louder: "Alright, Commander, I'm sure there are people who want to visit you, so I'll let them know that's permitted. My staff is going to leave you alone, but they'll come if you call, okay?"

"Yes, Doctor," Spock answers dutifully; but his voice is quieter, unwilling to play along.

"Oh, and Spock?" McCoy is back to the urgent undertone. "Don't do anything – or let anybody else do anything - that is gonna pull on that skin: Be real careful, now."

Sober hazel eyes are locked insistently on brown ones. "Call for help if you need it. I mean that. And don't forget why you're here."

And Spock just nods; before leaning his head back, and calmly closing his eyes.


	22. More Bedside Manners

_More Bedside Manners_

McCoy makes his way down to Sickbay, timing it so that he'll be back promptly at ten thirty. Halfway there he remembers that Spock often arrives three minutes early for their departmental meetings; and he wishes, just for a second, that he'd thought of that earlier.

But, no: He said 'ten thirty,' so ten thirty it's gonna be…

He greets the shift-change staff nurse as he enters the facility, and goes toward the curtained area. He walks in acting as though his day didn't start much like this - only opposite, if you see what I mean; as he does, he catches the merest hint of a spicy fragrance lingering in the air.

Uhura, of course, is there.

McCoy suppresses the smile that forms then.

Two pairs of expectant brown eyes, only a few feet apart, are directed toward the edge of the curtain when he comes around it. Uhura is standing at Spock's side, not quite touching him; she's looking back over her shoulder - her ponytail still swaying from the last-moment turn of her head.

"Good evening, Miss Uhura," he says, and now he smiles - at her fortitude in coming here, if nothing else. "I see you have discovered that something has, in fact, happened to our intrepid Commander Spock."

Uhura smiles a little at that, before turning back to the figure on the bed. "Yes, Doctor, I had noticed."

She had probably been sitting when McCoy arrived – the chair is there, pulled up close, and her padd and knitting bag are on the table.

But maybe not.

Right where she is standing, the blanket has slipped down a bit, revealing the smooth pale green-tinted skin and black body hair of the Vulcan's chest and shoulder. Her hand is on the bed, an inch or two from his bicep; slender fingers reach for the edge of the blanket and pull it up protectively around him.

His eyes on hers, Spock lifts his arm, so that she can smoothe the covers over him. As his hand comes down, his fingertips brush the length of her bare arm and sweep over her hand in passing, before folding with his own atop his chest.

If McCoy had not been facing them, with his chin tilted down toward his padd, he would not have seen it at all.

As it is, he smiles to himself, and is grateful for famous doctor-patient confidentiality.

And he makes a mental note to erase the biobed readings for the last few hours, just in case.

In a demonstration of brusque bedside manner, McCoy grunts and drops his padd on the end of the bed. He eyes Spock, and then Uhura, before addressing the latter. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid visiting hours are over." She nods, and starts to collect her things.

McCoy reaches one foot and hooks the leg of his rolling stool, pulling it toward him. He taps the padd where it lies on the bed, enters a note. Without looking at them, he says, "I wonder if you might be able to do me a favor, though." He can feel both of their eyes on him, and he glances up innocently, and meets Uhura's. "I promised the Commander, here, that I would bring fresh clothes for him. But I neglected to ask permission to enter his quarters." He turns to Spock. "Commander, would you mind if I send Miss Uhura to get those things for you?"

Spock's eyes slide from McCoy's to Uhura's. His lips form the single word, "No." His hand has dropped, apparently of its own volition, and is now resting mere centimeters from hers, at his side. "That would be acceptable," he adds.

"I'd be happy to, sir," she pipes in; and the comedy is complete.

McCoy nods, and turns away, busying himself with the biobed. "Mr. Spock, I'm sure the Lieutenant can bring you anything else you require, as well." He spares them a quick glance over his shoulder: They are gazing into each other's eyes. "I'll just give you a moment to give some instructions, shall I?" And feeling like a hopelessly romantic old fool, he hastily grabs his padd and steps out of the curtained area - and out of earshot.

Five minutes later, maybe six, she emerges. She is carrying her padd and her knitting bag, and neatly folded clothing in black and blue. When she spots McCoy, she veers toward him.

He goes to meet her. He puts a gentle hand on her back, and escorts her out into the corridor. She is looking at him questioningly, and he gestures with his head back toward the sickbay. "Vulcan hearing," he says, with a wry smile and upturned eyes.

She laughs a little, and nods in agreement.

Leonard sobers, then; he doesn't want any misunderstanding. "I want him to be as comfortable as possible. Loose pants, something loose for a shirt – oversized t-shirt, maybe. Does he have anything like that?"

She is thinking.

He tries to help, "Maybe pants with a drawstring? Pajamas? And something warm – layers, maybe – a sweater?"

She is shaking her head with a touch of uncertainty. "I'll try. He likes his clothes close to the body. And his uniform, of course. But I'll see what I can find."

"Good. Thanks."

He hesitates to say anything else, but finally deems this important enough to risk it. He drops his voice a little: "I am not making assumptions, Miss Uhura – and I hold patient confidentiality in high regard – so I am just going to casually mention to you, Lieutenant, that I have an anonymous patient who is in a lot more fragile condition that he, perhaps, believes. And his pain level has got to be high. Immobile, he should heal well enough. But if that patient puts any strain on his injuries - or if the tissue surrounding them becomes abraded - the recovery could take a while, and be fairly unpleasant. Are you following me?"

She is nodding, and her eyes are wider than before.

"Anything that can be done to keep him here, comfortable - cooperative, even – for the next few days, I am pretty much going to agree to. But he needs to focus on healing. So anything that brings him peace of mind, I'd be game for, too. Okay?"

She is smiling a little. "Okay. I'll bear that in mind."

"Good." He clears his throat, makes his tone businesslike. "Well. Just get the things Mr. Spock needs, and drop them by as soon as you can, Lieutenant." He coughs a little, looks at her upturned face. "But no more visiting tonight. I want him to try to get some sleep."

He sees her off down the corridor, and it occurs to him that it is probably soothing – healing - for her to feel like she is, at least, doing _some_thing to help Spock. He realizes he forgot to mention that some of the Science Officer's pet whiz kids are working on a special project… Well, that can wait until morning.

He turns back in to Sickbay. He grabs a hypo, and gets himself a cup of coffee before heading to where his patient awaits.

Spock's eyes are closed, his lashes very dark and still against his cheeks; and his breathing has slowed.

McCoy puts his padd and his coffee cup on the table; and, pushing it back some, he drops into the chair near where Uhura had been standing.

Far from looking like he is sleeping, the Vulcan appears to be focused on something inside his own head.

His face is no longer drawn: It looks the tiniest bit softer, now, more peaceful – more like his normal self; and his hands, too, appear more relaxed.

It won't do, the doctor thinks, for Spock to get ideas.

McCoy eyes the other a minute further, and takes a sip of his coffee. He leans back, stretches out his legs, crosses them at the ankles, takes another sip. When he speaks, he lets a little of his drawl slip in. "Have a nice visit with Lieutenant Uhura?"

Spock blinks, and gazes at the ceiling. He doesn't move, and his non-expression hasn't changed - but it is clear he does not want to respond. He reluctantly replies, "Yes."

"She's a very attractive woman."

McCoy drinks some coffee, and watches his patient breathe. There is no other response.

"Did you do anything stupid?"

Two more long slow breaths, and Spock turns his head to look at him – another perfect expressionless stare.

McCoy takes a deliberate sip of coffee, then lowers his cup. He has learned to wait.

He takes another sip.

Spock is still doing his slightly creepy non-blinking blank-face Vulcan staring thing. But Leonard waits, knowing the other can not leave a question unanswered.

He sips again.

Spock still hasn't blinked, and McCoy is not even sure his chest is rising and falling.

Maybe he just doesn't know how to answer.

McCoy pushes himself to his feet. He walks around the end of the bed, tapping its foot a few times with an idle finger as he passes.

It is obvious that Spock is following his foot falls, but he still does not speak; and his eyes have closed by the time McCoy makes it up to his ribs. He turns his chin away, just a small amount, when the doctor reaches for the blanket - but he lifts his elbow to make moving it possible. (That's a fight Leonard's glad not to have.)

The doctor eases the covers back just far enough to see the worst of the lacerations. The skin is still held precariously together on the injuries that are exposed; and the bandages are all in place. He breathes a mental sigh of relief, and nods, carefully re-placing the blanket over the other's torso. Leonard drops one hand gently on the bare skin of Spock's shoulder.

That action seems to startle him: He turns his head swiftly, and eyes far too intelligent and perceptive meet McCoy's.

Leonard gives him a reassuring pat, and smiles a little, nodding. "You're very smart, in fact, Commander. Thanks: I was not looking forward to another session with the glue this evening."

And Spock gravely nods his agreement.

"Okay," Leonard says, walking back around the foot of the bed to grab his padd and moving to where his patient can see him easily. "Where are we?"

Quickly, he shoots a quelling glance at the Vulcan. "Don't answer that."

Spock's eyebrow rises by an eighth of an inch, but he says nothing.

"Here's what we're gonna do -" the doctor proposes, "I am going to ask you a few questions, take a closer look at you, see what we can do to make you a little more comfortable, okay?"

Spock nods.

"Then we'll see if we can get you into some clothes, and settled in for a peaceful, quiet night – Alright?"

Again, Spock nods.

The consultation goes well – no mulishness, at all - until Spock suddenly stops talking and turns his face toward the entrance of Sickbay, outside the curtains. McCoy stops, too, and then listens carefully: After a moment, he can hear quiet voices. They are only a murmur, but he is sure that that is Uhura - talking with Jim, maybe. There are a few footfalls, the Captain laughs a little – it could be no one else – and now they can hear his voice clearly: "I'll risk it, Uhura, thanks. But I promise to behave."

Uhura replies with something that McCoy interprets as "You'd better." He decides not to ask Spock exactly what she said.

He can make out the Captain's footsteps moving closer. There is a pause, and Jim pokes his head around the corner, with one hand covering his eyes. What is he - like, four? "Hey, guys, can I come in?"

To do Jim credit, he hasn't come on in anyway - so McCoy figures he might actually be able to head him off, if Spock really isn't feeling up to it… But when McCoy looks to him, Spock nods.

"Yeah, Jim, c'mon in," McCoy says, and the Captain drops his hand with a grin and a shrug, and ducks in around the curtain. He has a bundle of things clutched clumsily to his chest; he looks about, a little, uncertainly, as if wondering where to put them.

McCoy clears his padd and cup off of the bedside table and nods toward it. Surprisingly, Jim manages to put the bundle down without saying or doing something he shouldn't. He sprawls in the visitor's chair.

Lounging back in the chair, Jim laces his fingers behind his head and stretches out his legs; and gazes at Spock. Apparently satisfied with what he sees there, he looks around more, curiously. He glances at McCoy, then, frowning a bit. "Kinda hot in here."

McCoy rolls his eyes and resists saying "Vulcan: Butt-nekkid," 'cause he's not too sure about Spock's sense of humor at the moment. Or ever. (And, actually, he doesn't truly want to draw any attention to all of the uncovered pale skin showing above the blankets.) But the thought does make him smile, which seems to put Jim at ease – not that he looks, much, like he needs it.

Jim says, "Oh!" and his sudden movement is startling. He points toward the things on the table. "I ran into Uhura. She was going to drop these by for you, so I just brought them along. I hope that's okay."

Spock nods – an answer to an unasked question.

Jim looks at McCoy, and his expression is the tiniest bit defiant. "She told me 'no visitors' but I figured you'd let me in, just this once."

McCoy has been preemptively frowning over his padd, now he glances at Jim. "Yeah, just this once." He makes a show of entering something, frowns again, drops the device back on the bed. "But after this, no barging in. And I mean that, Captain – Commander Spock will let the staff know if he wants company, and who. Otherwise, leave him alone."

Jim opens his mouth, but doesn't dare talk: McCoy is really glaring at him.

Then the doctor shrugs. "Well, that is, if you want your First Officer back anytime soon."

And Jim has no smart-ass answer to that, so he just leans back and eyes said First Officer.

He smiles amiably. "Yeah," he says, his tone glib, "I'll be good."

He glances at the doctor: "I need him, Bones, and the sooner the better - " the smile becomes slightly roguish, "I really suck at preparing for briefings."

He turns to Spock, then, and the famed Kirk smile widens into a grin. "Since he's not cutting _me_ any slack - After I leave, see if you can talk him into letting you pull over the display. There's this…"

"Jim!"

Jim ignores McCoy's outrage and raises one finger to his lips in the universal 'shhh' sign for 'secrets'. He murmurs in an ostentatious undertone, "Don't worry, Spock, I'll slip you a padd. I know you're gonna get bored sooner or later."

And Spock solemnly nods.

"James T. Kirk!" McCoy hisses, rising to his feet – In his panic, he can't help himself, even though he is pretty certain he sounds like one of his maiden aunts…

_Crap_.

Blue eyes and brown - both wide – are staring at him in surprise. He addresses himself to the blue. "Jesus, Jim! Yes, he's gonna live - _this_ time - but that doesn't mean that right now he's feeling like anything other than warmed-over dog shit! Can't you at least show a little sympathy?"

"And _you_," he's angrily addressing the brown, which close and open, in a slow blink, "Don't encourage him. You heard what I said before: You already have a job to do, in here. And I will be pissed as hell if you let _this - _" he jerks a disparaging thumb at the highest ranking officer on the ship, "talk you into doing something stupid." He glares into inscrutable dark eyes. "Is that clear?"

Spock nods blankly; and in a quiet voice forced between tight lips, McCoy offers the one threat he's got that he's sure will give him complete control over one obstinately unpredictable Vulcan genius: "Good. I'm glad it's clear. Because I sure as hell do not want to have to forbid you visitors."

And then, just for a second, he wishes he hadn't given in to temptation: Something deep inside Vulcan eyes has closed off, and Spock has averted his face.

There is a small silence.

McCoy turns to Kirk. The doctor has lost his will to fight, but he's not about to give up hard-won ground: "Out. Go get some sleep. Or do something Captainly." He shoots him one last sharp glance; then sighs, and mumbles, "I'll call you tomorrow when I feel like letting you come back."

And Jim just nods, and slips away, past the curtain.

When the door has whooshed behind the departing Captain, McCoy drops tiredly onto the rolling stool, and runs his hands through his hair. Then, keeping an eye on his silent patient, he kicks himself over to the tray, and collects his coffee cup. He takes a sip, sighs; then rolls himself back to Spock's side. The Vulcan is pointedly ignoring him, and Leonard isn't sure what he should say.

He tries to sort through his conflicted feelings. He doesn't think he's done it very successfully – and looking at the still figure, he feels more awkward, more foolish even, than usual.

He takes another sip of cool, bitter coffee, sighs again, then stands. Taking a step to Spock's bedside, he looks down, and sees Spock's eyes closing in mute self-defense. He deliberately lays his hand flat on the Vulcan's bare shoulder, over his clavicle - keeping it there for a long, long moment. Spock's chest rises and falls, and he blinks, but he doesn't offer any other response. "Sorry, Spock, I…" McCoy mutters, almost under his breath. "I'll be back in a sec – I'm going to go get another cup of coffee, okay?"

Spock does not look at him, but he does nod.

The doctor takes a few minutes to get his coffee, and when he returns, he decides to pretend that Spock has forgiven him.

"So, Commander, where were we?"

Spock turns his head to look at him, and Leonard sees that his sense of humor has not improved any.

"Never mind."

Sitting again on his rolling stool, he leans one elbow on the back of the visitor's chair, rests his chin on his fist. He gazes at the ship's Vulcan First Officer for a moment, then makes his voice as conversational as he can. "I have the readouts turned off. You wanna give me an honest assessment of your pain level, or shall I just flip that baby back on?"

It sounds like the words are being dragged out of him, but at least the other is speaking: "The pain I am experiencing is within acceptable parameters."

"Uh-huh."

When McCoy speaks again, his voice is gentler. "You do realize, don't you, that in about 3 minutes I'm gonna start poking around? So, if you need something to help you get through that, don't be shy. Now's the time, Spock - Okay?"

"I understand." Spock's tone is remote.

"Yeah, well – By my calculations, the last of the shots I gave you should be wearing off soon."

He shakes his head, when Spock starts to say something then. "No, don't tell me. I'd really just as soon not know." Spock's lips close, and McCoy knows he was right. "So, what'll it be? I can give you a spritz…" He tries to make it sound tempting.

But Spock is shaking his head in his single sideways Vulcan negative.

"Alrighty then." McCoy is temporarily resigned: He is altogether too well acquainted with this particular brand of obduracy. "If you'll hold still, I think we might oughta start with your hip."

Spock doesn't say anything, and McCoy realizes he didn't actually ask him a question. "Sound good?"

Spock nods.

While he's washing his hands, Leonard wonders how far he can push Spock before the other gets good and irritated. Well, no matter - He feels obligated to try one last time: He directs his voice back over his shoulder. "Not too late, Commander." He's walking over, dropping onto the rolling stool. "Could still give you a little something, you know…"

"Yes, I am aware of that. But no. No medication." Spock's voice is firm.

The gashes look less distressed than McCoy had feared, and he makes short work of the bandaging of hip and thigh. He half holds his breath as he helps the Vulcan slip on the pants Uhura brought – With every movement, the skin is strained; but it doesn't tear further.

When Spock raises one hip to lift himself back onto the biobed, McCoy moves closer; but Spock shakes his head at the unspoken offer of assistance, lifts one hand against that intrusion. As the other presses himself up, the muscles across his ribs shift beneath their damaged surface – and, though the skin does not give way, the livid bruises stand out vividly. His arms flex; and seeing those muscles working, McCoy realizes that, at some point, the gauze was removed from his wrist.

Spock sits on the edge of the biobed for the remainder of the treatment; and Leonard struggles to find something to talk about besides ship's business. Uhura, he knows, is a forbidden subject, and anything else would just be small talk. He lapses into silence. As he re-bandages the wrist – its skin faintly scented and glistening with a fine sheen of oil - he looks up to meet Vulcan eyes. Once more, Spock has been watching him intently.

"Time for a shirt. Then I'll send you out to do whatever it is you do before going to bed, alright?" The other nods, and McCoy continues, "The air out there is going to feel cold - so you might want your sweater, too…" Spock starts to speak, and Leonard waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know - You can control your shivering. Ordinarily. But, Spock, your skin is already besieged, so just give it a break, okay?"

And Spock nods at that, too.

The shirt Uhura found is long, to the knees, slim in the torso but fuller below. It has a close high collar, and the sleeves end in tight bands secured at the wrists with metal fittings. Helping him with those, McCoy cannot imagine how Spock will be able sleep in such a garment (though, he reflects, at least he won't be tempted to unwind the bandages underneath). The fabric is soft and flexible, however - unlikely to rub uncomfortably on tender skin. The short sweater-thing has wide sleeves, long enough to cover the hands, or turn back into cuffs. It wraps across the chest – obviously another Vulcan garment – and Leonard thinks it couldn't be more perfect: Easy for the other to manage, as the temperatures in Sickbay fluctuate.

McCoy directs Spock to the private facilities off of his own office, and his offer of assistance is once more refused.

In uniform, the Vulcan First Officer is a familiar figure. But now, watching him silently pad barefoot across Sickbay - his walk very different - Leonard has a hard time recognizing him: He looks strangely alien, and, in spite of Vulcan dignity, very young… McCoy ruefully shakes his head at his own illogic: Hasn't he spent several hours, today, dealing in silence with emerald blood, heated skin, and eyes that see – have seen - far too much?

While he is waiting for the other to return, he tidies up a bit, and mechanically organizes gauze, scissors, glue: All that is left, now, is the gash on Spock's cheek, and his long sensitive hands. McCoy hopes that the Vulcan will let him numb them before working, again, on the torn fingertips and the ugly double slash.

But, naturally, he won't.

(Stubborn, recalcitrant, obstinate, intractable, obdurate, refractory…)

Gauze, scissors, glue.

Composing a mental inventory of supplies that will need to be replenished during their next stop at a starbase carries the doctor through an inspection of Spock's fingers. Planning follow-up training for newly assigned personnel gets him past the cleaning and bandaging of the slashes, and the smaller tears on the palms.

He rolls away for a minute, and thinks that Spock is going to need some help, in the morning. He wonders what time the Vulcan normally wakes up, and whether he, himself, will have had enough sleep by then. Then he thinks that maybe he should just leave a message for Uhura. He glances at Spock, considering, and finds the other's eyes examining him.

He smiles, a little, apologetically. "Just trying to figure out what else I can do for you, Commander."

Spock nods.

McCoy asks him then, "Is there anything you need?"

After a moment, Spock speaks, and his voice is quiet. "Perhaps some sleep."

At that, the doctor grins. "I thought you'd never ask."

He holds the jacket as the other slips his long arms from the sleeves, then puts it within easy reach. Once again, he helps the other move to a better spot, then lie back. He shifts the pillow so it supports his neck. Then he helps straighten the blankets.

There is a little gleam of amusement, then, in Spock's eye, and McCoy wonders whether he has ever been fussed over by a more solicitous mother hen. Picking up his hypo, he eyes the Vulcan sternly. "Now listen, here, Mister Spock. You need to get a good night's sleep - and then get to work with your healing business."

"Doctor McCoy," Spock says, his voice completely sober - and perhaps a little drained, "that would be much easier if my system were free of contaminants."

"Contaminants?" Leonard starts to reach a hand for the Feinberger; he's a bit confused: He didn't see any signs of infection.

Spock looks away. "It is difficult to… feel… with the interference of pain medication."

"Well, yeah, Spock, that's sort of the point."

Spock turns his head, slowly, then, to look into McCoy's eyes. His non-expression manages to convey the impression that the Doctor has been suddenly struck stupid.

McCoy gets it. "Oh. No, Spock, no." He shakes his head to emphasize the negative. "No. That I can't do. Seriously, now…"

Spock has leaned his head back and is calmly contemplating the ceiling.

McCoy is still – or again – shaking his head.

Spock doesn't bother to look at him. "If I am not able to focus, then I assure you that you will grow very tired, indeed, of my company before another 66 hours have passed."

It takes a moment for that to sink in. "Is that a threat?" McCoy is starting to get a little pissed, now. (Damned Vulcan, tryin' to tell him how to practice medicine…)

Spock's eyebrow has risen the tiniest amount. He is still coolly studying the ceiling, and his voice is level. "No. An observation, merely." It seems that that is all he is going to say, but then: "Vulcans do not –"

"—do not make threats." McCoy sighs. "Yeah, I know. You know what else I know?"

Spock turns his head, again, to look at the doctor, his face utterly expressionless. Leonard waits a second for him to parry with something cool and dispassionate that will, in actuality, be a thinly-veiled insult; but Spock doesn't pick up the gauntlet.

"Vulcans can be a real pain in the ass."

The only response is silence.

Though it doesn't show outwardly, McCoy realizes Spock really must be tired, and hurting worse than he will admit: He did not respond rapier-fast to that sally, either, and ordinarily he would have – efficiently - going straight to the heart with ruthless, penetrating logic – or equally cutting wit.

The doctor sighs, again, and leans forward, a little, toward his patient. "No pain medication?"

"Preferably not."

"So you can mumbo-jumbo your body into healing faster… Have I got that that right?"

Spock just looks at the ceiling, and McCoy stands, and reaches out one hand - He stops short of grasping that shoulder… Spock's eyes slide toward him. "Spock, I get it. And I'm sorry you don't feel like fencing. I probably wouldn't either," he admitted, "if I was in that kind of pain.

"I guess it's about to be worse though… I don't like it, but you win: No pain meds.

"However," the doctor says briskly, stepping over to the controls of the biobed, "I'm going to set this so that if the pain you're experiencing goes outside of what I consider to be tolerable levels, it will alert me immediately." He taps the controls, suiting action to words. "If it goes off – or even turns off – I'll come straight away, and give you the good stuff."

From any other patient, that would earn him a smile. From Spock? Nothing. Not even a nod.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Alright then. Try to get some sleep." Leonard goes to the edge of the curtain, and starts to pull it aside - but he can't resist a parting shot: "And heal, damn it."

And at that, Spock nods.


	23. Still More Bedside Manners

_Still More Bedside Manners _

Steam fills the bathroom. McCoy strips off his surgical tunic and uniform, dropping them on the floor as he steps into the shower. Hot water stings his skin. He tenses, then begins to relax. Mind wandering aimlessly, he tries to imagine what it would feel like, if the needles-on-skin sensation were amplified… What it would feel like if he were from a desert planet… When he realizes he's been standing there – just standing there, with water rushing over him unheeded – a part of him starts to make clinical observations on his probable state of mind. But he hushes it by abruptly shutting off the water, roughly running the towel over his face and hair, and stepping out into the still-steam-filled bathroom. When he's finished with his teeth, and all, he has to wipe the condensation off his skin before moving into a bedroom that seems almost chilly in comparison.

He's probably used his entire allotment of water for a week.

He makes a few last notes, before - eyes bleary - he flips off the computer and heads to bed.

Tired as he is, sleep eludes him. He tosses and turns as the bedclothes inexorably knot around him, his mind worrying – like a dog with a too-large bone - at the problem that is Spock. Whispers of 'you should have asked -, ' and 'have you thought about -' swim to the surface until, at last, freeing his legs, he manages to convince that niggling part of his brain that he's done the best he can - That tomorrow he'll do the same; and when the next day comes, he'll do the same once more…

The next morning, Doctor McCoy wakes early, gradually becoming aware that he won't be able to go back to sleep. He quickly showers again, and shaves, and goes right to Sickbay. He notes – with a certain perverse satisfaction – that his sudden arrival has startled his staff; he decides he should try to do it again soon. He stands at his desk just long enough to check the uneventful night-shift summary and down a single slug of coffee. Topping off his cup, he heads for Spock's biobed, trying to imitate Vulcan soundlessness. He slips through the curtain, and moves toward the bed.

Just for a moment, the doctor is relieved, thinking that the other is sleeping. But when Leonard places his cup on the table - as quietly as possible – Spock's eyes open. It takes them a moment to focus; and it gives Leonard the shivers to realize he is watching the Vulcan consciously pull his vision back from some invisible distant place.

Spock blinks once, slowly, then turns his head to meet the doctor's gaze. His eyes look very black.

McCoy gives him a gentle smile, then – manner deliberately businesslike - steps toward the monitor.

Spock just blinks at the ceiling a few times, then closes his eyes.

Satisfied – at least for the moment – McCoy makes his way once around the Medical Bay, scribbling a few notes; then checks in with the staff nurse before going to Rec Room One. Once there, he grabs a tray, and a decent breakfast; then looks for Jim or Uhura.

The two are seated at a large table; but it is clearing out, now, as people are headed off to work. McCoy drops his tray on the table across from Jim, and sits down, feeling a little too groggy, even for him. He realizes he forgot to drink the rest of his coffee.

"'Morning, Bones," Jim says, and he laughs at the look McCoy throws him.

"Good Morning, Doctor McCoy," Uhura says brightly; and for her, he manages a smile.

He's a few bites in before he feels much like talking. He looks up to see two pairs of eyes looking at him hopefully. He shakes his head, and has a couple more bites before facing two of the biggest optimists he's been accursed enough to meet. He puts down his fork, and looks from one to the other. "What?"

Jim and Uhura both look slightly taken aback, and they exchange a glance. Apparently Jim is elected speaker, because he says, with relentless cheer, "Late night, there, Bones?"

McCoy just shakes his head and picks up his fork. He really is groggy, and he needs a second to think. During his next two bites, he comes up with a plan - Maybe that one gulp of caffeine is finally hitting his system. He doesn't look up; but, poking at his breakfast, he mumbles, "So, Captain, can I borrow Miss Uhura for a few minutes?" He glances at Jim, then, and his look is meaningful.

Kirk doesn't appear particularly pleased at the prospect of losing her from the Bridge, but he agrees.

McCoy then fixes Uhura with his morning glare. "Got me a Vulcan down in Sickbay. Do you know what they like for breakfast? Think you can get that for me?"

She nods and smiles - a radiant Uhura smile - and taking her tray, stands up. As she's heading over to the unit, McCoy looks across at Jim. His tone is low and serious, and Captain Kirk is instantly alert, leaning toward him: "You can't have him back for at least those three days, Jim – I mean it. Minimum. And if you have any decency at all, you are gonna arrange it so that Uhura has some time off at the end of it, too. Meantime, I'm gonna call for her when I need her, and you're gonna let her come if she can be spared. That fair?"

Jim is nodding his complete comprehension. His eyes shift around in the vicinity of McCoy's left shoulder, and he lounges back in his chair: Uhura is returning, carrying a tray. Leonard shovels in a last couple of bites, climbs to his feet, and stacks his own tray on Jim's empty one, just as she comes up. "You don't mind, sir, do you?"

The Captain just smiles a little and shakes his head 'no.'

On the way to Sickbay, the Chief Medical Officer of the _Enterprise _casually mentions that he hears that the Chemistry, Botany, and Xeno-Biology Departments are collaboratively working on a new project.

The Chief Communication Officer's step is lighter as they enter the Medical Facilities.

Spock's eyes are closed, and his face has that peculiar inward-turned look when McCoy steps behind the curtain. The doctor grabs his coffee, and rolls the tray toward the foot of the bed to make way for Uhura.

She follows a step or two behind; Spock's eyes open when she nears. He blinks, and her voice is very soft. "_Vesht ya'akash osasharushu ta katau asal-yem na'odu, ashayam_."

Black eyes blink again, then slide from her face to Leonard's and back.

"Doctor McCoy asked me to bring you breakfast," Uhura repeats, placing the food-laden tray on the rolling tray-table at the bedside. After a moment, she steps forward, and slips her hand into the Vulcan's bandaged one. "Don't look like that," she says, with a laugh behind her words, "_Ri nam-tor riyeht kloshai fasei: Ken-tor etek on nam-tor odu sasu t'nash-veh.._"*

And Spock gravely answers, "Yes, this is true."

Uhura's free hand steals up to caress the other's cheek, and as she begins to bend toward him, the doctor hurriedly busies himself. A gulp or two of coffee covers her soft sigh and the sound of their kiss.

Leonard is very busy for a few minutes with monitor and padd; then, clearing his throat, he picks up his coffee cup, and sits on the rolling stool, on the left side of the bed. He appraises his patient a moment, then scoots up to where the Vulcan can see him easily. "Good Morning, Commander," he says - probably a little too loudly. He glances up at Uhura, a second, then back at Spock. "I hope you don't mind: I ran into Lieutenant Uhura at breakfast, and just brought her along. Do you think you are up for a short visit?"

Spock nods, a single movement of his chin.

McCoy is eyeing him again. He takes a sip of his coffee, then makes a face: He looks at Uhura. "Lieutenant, I hate to ask, but would you mind seeing if Nurse Chapel would make me some fresh coffee?" He hands over his cup, and as she leaves, says, "Thanks."

He turns to Spock, then. "Let's be quick. What do you need first? Water, pain meds, rest room, breakfast, a walk - what?"

Spock doesn't hesitate. "Breakfast." Then he does hesitate; and raising his eyebrow slightly, glances toward the curtain. "And company."

McCoy laughs out loud at that. "A fine, honest answer, Commander. Let me help you sit up, and I'll leave you to it." He locks the wheels on his stool, and stands; then moves around to the other side of the bed.

When Spock presses his palms flat to start to push himself up, Leonard is ready to assist him, so that he doesn't reopen his side. The doctor adjusts the bed, and Spock eases back.

McCoy rolls up the tray, puts the visitor's chair closer. "How's that? Good?"

Spock nods, and starts to push the blankets back. McCoy quickly reaches to fold them out of the way and takes the opportunity to frown a warning. "I'm giving you an hour: You be careful, you hear me?"

And Spock nods again, then turns his attention to the tray.

Dismissed, apparently, McCoy goes in search of his coffee. Quickly assessing the situation, he puts aside his own thoughts and sets Uhura free with a few careless-seeming words: "Nurse Chapel, let's go over what we have today, shall we?"

And as he moves purposefully toward his office, Chapel has no choice but to follow.

* * *

* "_Ri nam-tor riyeht kloshai fasei: Ken-tor etek on nam-tor odu sasu t'nash-veh.._" : "This behavior is not inappropriate: We both know that you are my man."


	24. Bedside Manners Later that Day

_Bedside Manners Later That Day_

Doctor McCoy spends his first full hour in Sickbay that morning dealing with routine matters. He even manages to finish a report he's been avoiding: His Departmental Meeting might be delayed, given the circumstances, but he won't be able to keep the Science Officer here, tied-up, forever…

Saving the file, he stretches and stands: That last thought has reminded him of his patient – and the time.

As he reaches the curtains, he can hear a low murmur of voices, barely distinguishable amongst the hushed background noises and dampened machinery of the 'bay. He stops, struck by the thought that, in all this time, he's never really heard the Vulcan converse. Observe, yes – remark, yes – order, certainly. But engaging in an ordinary conversation? Never. Such a thing, in fact, hardly seems possible.

Maybe it's not. Maybe even this conversation isn't ordinary – at least by Human standards: Their voices are so low that he can't make out the words – but the bulk of them seem to be Uhura's, anyway.

What would Spock talk about, given he would?

Leonard wonders how she can stand it: The silence and - well, _every_thing…

He sighs.

Then, with an effort, he recaptures his clinical manner and - clearing his throat - reaches, again, toward the curtains, one hand pushing them aside. As he enters, he turns to pull them tightly closed once more.

When he turns back around, they appear to have hardly moved; though, really, there's no telling: Maybe there is just the hint of movement – of hands dropping, having been drawn apart… Uhura is sitting in the visitor's chair close by the bed, her knitting suspended between the delicate graceful fingers of her right hand. Her left one is moving slowly to gather up yarn and a smooth wooden needle.

The breakfast tray has been pushed away, and - though it is obvious they had been smoothed and tucked carefully - the blankets are crumpled around Spock's bent knees. The doctor is pleased to note that it looks as though the Vulcan actually ate something – but he supposes it's too much to ask that the man try to remain even remotely still in consideration of the injured tissue he bears.

Eyeing them both, again, Leonard is surprised, once more, at how young they appear. Too young, he thinks, for so much pain, and so much responsibility.

But that, he supposes, is neither here nor there.

Uhura stays for only a few more minutes. Spock rolls back his sleeve matter-of-factly when the doctor, returning with a tray of supplies, says, "Well, Mr. Spock, shall we?"; and as McCoy asks him about his pain, and unwinds meters of gauze from a forearm marred with torn (though no longer gouged and puckered) green skin, he finds himself surprised that Spock is willing to speak, at all, with her there.

But he is. (Though hardly more than usual.)

This, it would seem, is a no man's land.

Uhura quietly gathers her things, without comment or words of parting. She slips away before McCoy moves on to examine Spock's hands - and, frankly, the doctor is relieved.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Jim Kirk has come, and gone – on his best behavior. McCoy keeps an eagle eye on him, at first; but Jim mostly seems to just want to hang out, and maybe hear a low, grave Vulcan voice.

He is preceded, very shortly, by Chekov, who mutely slips a book, with a note attached, onto the bedside table - with every evidence of crippling embarrassment, poor boy.

And surprisingly – once word has gone out (as it inevitably will, on board a starship) that Commander Spock was more-than-passingly injured - several other members of the crew have dropped by. An assortment of specialists in blue want to visit en masse, but scatter when they are denied the collective protection of going in as a group.

Leonard has to smile at Scotty's good-humored optimism in bringing a bottle of whiskey and some schematics. Though Leonard expects him to be summarily dismissed, the Engineer stays for a good half-hour – and McCoy, just able to catch the sound of voices as he passes outside the curtain, is surprised by that, too.

The doctor has other patients, of course: McKinnon comes in for counseling. The man – just a kid, really, one of the first-service-in-crisis lot - is making progress, but slowly; and McCoy is becoming concerned. Everyone entering Starfleet undergoes stringent evaluations (McKinnon included, of course); and, one way or another, everyone suffered under Nero – injury and losses alike. (Again, McKinnon included.) And yes, the losses were horrific - unimaginable, really - but McKinnon wasn't in the first line of defense; his losses were (if viewed dispassionately) secondary… Still, something in the boy seems broken, and McCoy has tried nearly everything, and is running out of tricks. What the youngster needs most of all is time. And ironically, time is a luxury not much given to those away from home in the service of the Federation - relegated to the edge of Deep Space for five years or more… (And God knows there is no absence out here of loss or pain – even when he and Jim and Spock manage to do their jobs properly.) When the boy stands to return to duty, McCoy stands, too. He gently claps one hand on the red-clad shoulder; and holding it there, assures him, "Matt, you can come talk to me any time. You know that." The boy nods. He looks away, and McCoy thinks he looks miserable. "If there's anything I can do for you – anything I can do to help, to make this easier – you let me know." And nodding again, uncomfortably, the boy turns to go. Sitting at his desk after McKinnon has gone, McCoy rubs his eyes wearily; and fills in a field on the boy's chart that he would rather be able to leave blank. He makes a note to talk to the Captain – Just casual-like: A heads-up, just in case.

He deals with a tension head-ache, mild dehydration, and a case of tummy-troubles. A few patients come in for small injuries, or follow-up.

Between-times, the doctor makes his rounds, and does his paperwork (with very little protest, all things considered) - and checks on his Vulcan patient, running interference between him and the Chief Nurse who would gladly take him on.

At the end of Day Shift, McCoy has a word with the incoming Staff Nurse, locks down his files, and heads out to dinner. He is already starting to consider what he'll have to do tomorrow. He has only made it a few feet, however, when he looks up and sees Christine Chapel, who has evidently been loitering in the corridor, waiting for him. Thinking better of returning to his office (though the temptation is strong), he continues on. As he walks toward her she straightens, wringing her hands a little, unconsciously; and his heart sinks. Even his easy days are long, and he's so tired it seems perpetual…

"Nurse Chapel," he says with a nod, his voice unintentionally brusque.

"Doctor," she answers, in the ritual response of the well-trained nurse.

Internally, he sighs. Chapel _is_ a well-trained nurse – and she's a good one, for the most part. The best, really, if he's going to be strictly fair. She just has one tiny little weakness… But that weakness is pretty damned inconvenient, McCoy thinks, since it comes in the form of a tall, dark, Vulcan First Officer (whose private life is strictly private, Thank-you-Doctor-That-is-all). McCoy glances over, catches the world-weary – and eternally hopeful - blue eyes of the woman waiting for him.

He sighs again.

"What can I do for you, Christine?" he asks.

Watching her try to straighten her shoulders under a slipping cloak of calm professionalism, he feels sorry for her. Chapel knows a little something about loss, and pain, too. Maybe this isn't what he thinks, he thinks hopefully. Maybe he isn't going to have to –

Summoning courage, she starts, resolutely, "It's Mr. Spock."

_Damn._

He opens his mouth to reply, but the nurse hurries on, "Doctor, it's just that – well, I've noticed that when you're available, you're who Mr. Spock always comes to… And it just seems like you always have so much to do, and I thought that maybe I could help you, and then maybe Mr. Spock would have somebody else he could trust, and…"

Her eyes lift to his - Meeting them, her voice trails off. She's breathing as though she's been running.

He shakes his head.

This time, she's the one who opens her mouth – but he shakes his head again, doggedly, and she stops, chin trembling.

After a moment for thought, and another silent sigh, he touches her back with a gentle hand, to steer her with him as he starts once more down the corridor.

"Listen, Christine," he says, still trying to figure out what to say – how much he can say – as a doctor, and a friend.

She glances over at him, and he can't tell but he thinks maybe her eyes are wary, ready to be hurt.

_Dammit._

"You and I, we know – as Medical professionals - that every single person who comes through Sickbay needs something different (even once the physical doctoring's done). Some need to be allowed to cry, and others need to be patched up and sent on their way – and frankly, some just need to be told to be quiet!"

She smiles a little, though he suspects she sort of wants to protest.

"Here's the thing. Mr. Spock, now – what he needs is something real different."

He stops walking. She stops, too, and turns to look at him. "Chris, you and I both know you're the best nurse I've got. You're good at establishing an emotional connection: You're kind, you're compassionate; you care about your patients and your work." She's nodding, something in her eyes brightening under his praise; and he turns so that they start walking, again. "Those are great qualities – wonderful qualities – and they work great with patients that need bandaging or a good cry. Or even," he says with grim humor, "those who should shut the hell up…"

Her smile is wider, now; they are talking professional – not personal – matters.

"I know how much you want to help.

"But with Mr. Spock… an emotional connection just gets in the way." He hesitates; then - Oh, what the hell: "He's not gonna cry, he hardly stands for patching up - and the last thing I need from him, when he's bleeding on my floor, is for him to be quiet!"

He glances at her sidelong: She looks a little shocked, but amused; then she grins, a little, as the justice of his words sinks in.

"The man is more tight-lipped than an Aldebaran shell-mouth." He lets a little of his own real frustration seep out; but figures that, really, it only reveals something about himself – and nothing about Spock, at all.

He glances over at Chapel again. She's definitely listening, and he thinks maybe she'll hear what he's saying.

"Thing is, maybe he needs to be."

He feels the corner of his mouth quirk up at her questioning glance – and he lets it. "I know some people think Mr. Spock is mysterious, enigmatic and intriguing – or some sort of tragic hero. But – and this is just me, mind (though I do know a thing or two, even if I do say so) - I think his mind just works differently, more differently than we can grasp... And honestly, I think he just wants to be left alone. You know?"

She doesn't answer. She's looking at the ground in front of her, as they walk. After a moment, she nods, just a little.

"Christine," he pauses; and this time, he lets her hear the hesitation as he gropes for the right words. "I know you don't want to hear this – and I know you probably aren't going to believe me – but Spock has got the life he wants. He doesn't need anything – anyone – else. He's got his job, his responsibilities – his interests, even. And he has a few people he works with all the time, who will mostly leave him be, but can let him be himself, just as he is – with no expectations - when they do get together away from the job."

She starts to say something, but doesn't; and after a second's pause he finishes the thought as though he hadn't noticed.

"Anything else – anything more than that – is an unwelcome distraction."

They move a few feet further, then. She glances up at him – a flash of blue more vivid than the uniform – before eyeing the toes of her boots, in their slow progress down the corridor. "So, you're saying - " It's clear she can't finish the thought.

"I'm saying that – however much somebody might think they know or understand – or even care for - Commander Spock, the one thing they really need to grasp is that he is _Vulcan_ – which is a lot different, and more alien, than you might imagine."

"Oh," she says, quietly.

"And what I'm also sayin' is that - when Commander Spock comes into Sickbay - the wonderful compassionate qualities of the nurse who usually assists me are going to distract him, rather than help him heal. And _that_, I can't have."

This time, it takes a lot longer, then: "Oh."

She takes another few steps, then stops. He can hear her take a long drawn breath.

He reaches out one hand, and gently turns her chin toward him. After a second she lifts vulnerable blue eyes to his; he can see helpless tears welling in them. Before he can think twice about it, he opens his arms; and she melts into them, her head on his shoulder. Hoping to God no one will come around the corner in the next five minutes, he holds her, trying not to think how well she fits against him - and listens to the small sound of Christine Chapel trying not to cry.

"Oh, Leonard," she whispers, those few soft words watery.

And he is very glad that that is all she says.

He pats her back, a little awkwardly, and says, his voice gruff, "I'm sorry, Christine."

"I know." She sniffs, and raises her head. One hand brushes ineffectually at the escaping tears that have run down her cheeks. When she backs away, he can see one drop trembling on the end of her nose – and he is a little relieved when she wipes that one away, too, so that he does not have to. "Thanks," she says, and his heart turns over when he sees her trying to smile.

She smoothes her skirt, and pats her hair back into place, making a conscious effort to stand up straight before turning to walk away.

"Hey, Chris?"

She looks back over her shoulder, and for a moment she looks like some graceful wild creature caught by surprise: All legs, and wide eyes.

"Take the day off tomorrow."

She gives a half-nod, and smiles, before rounding the corner into a side passageway, heading for home.

* * *

Everyone else has already gathered in the Officer's Mess by the time McCoy arrives. The conversation seems a bit haphazard, and – noticing the empty chair near Uhura, left empty through sheer force of habit rather than in expectation of another arrival – Leonard suspects he knows why. When he approaches with a laden tray, his suspicion is confirmed: All eyes leap toward him, and they shift eagerly to make room.

Still, he's a doctor: They can't honestly expect…

He sits, and roughly shovels in a few bites; suddenly, the sandwich-at-his-desk seems a long time ago. He chews this last bite slowly, in silence; and, still holding his fork, glances up. He meets the Captain's eyes. That blue gaze is filled with a mixture of eagerness, wariness, and amusement. McCoy is glad his mouth is full, so he can resist the temptation to smile. He looks down at his plate, still chewing. He swallows, takes a swig of water, and looks up again.

He looks around at the attentive circle of faces: Bromley, Kyle, Chekov, Scott, Kirk, Sulu, Hannity, Uhura, Jakobsen.

Jakobsen? He realizes the decorative blonde has garnered a temporary upgrade in duty during Spock's absence; and he has to smile, though he hides it behind a napkin scrubbed across his mouth. Uhura might not find much joy in the substitution; but Jim, now? In the full realization that his Chief Science Officer will be returned to him in the fullness of time, Jim has got to be enjoying the change in scenery…

Leonard eats one more bite. His gaze meets Jim's again, and the message Jim is sending is loud and clear. Uhura has taken another mouthful of salad, and, chewing, she discreetly slides her eyes toward him – no warning there, which he takes as encouragement. He abruptly drops his utensil on the edge of his plate, and the desultory conversations around the table dwindle. He takes another gulp of water; and wiping his mouth again, clears his throat. All eyes are on him, and Jim is nodding the tiny nod McCoy realizes he picked up from his First Officer.

"Uhm…" the doctor says, not really liking the feeling he has, that he's making an announcement.

"Doctor," Uhura starts, just a half-second before Captain Kirk says hastily, "Bones, how's Spock?" Her voice fades, and McCoy pretends she didn't speak.

He addresses himself to the man across the table. "Captain," he says firmly, setting the tone, "Commander Spock is recovering."

There is a collective exhale, and shifting in seats. "Now," he says firmly, gathering their attention to him again, "this does _not_ mean" (he avoids the warm brown eyes to his right, just past the pale blue) "that he is entirely out of danger." (His eyes shift to Jim's right, and left, catching the attentive gazes there – Chekov's eyes are wide.) "He's going to need some time."

With the air that he's said his piece, he picks up his fork, and spears a large bite. Taking his cue, Jim turns to his right and, making a few preliminary remarks, asks some question guaranteed to set off a geek storm. When Chekov and Scott are wound up enough that there's no way they'll notice, and Sulu has taken interest, Jim looks back at Leonard. McCoy calmly takes a big bite, and chews in satisfaction – and Jim just smiles.

A short time later, McCoy takes his demolished tray up to the units; and when he turns, empty-handed, Jakobsen is waiting for him. "Doctor McCoy," she says – and Leonard has to wonder whether the deft soft voice is as pleasing giving reports to her superior as it seems right now.

He smiles, gently, "Yes, Ensign?"

"Please tell Commander Spock…" The poor girl looks entirely out of her element (and about 12 years old) - and McCoy decides to rescue her.

"Don't worry, Annika," he says, and she looks up with a small smile starting to warm her pale face. "I'm sure he knows you'll do your best."

The smile reaches her eyes, and the icy blue is thawed delightfully. "Yes. Thank you, Sir," she breathes, and he can hear the smile in her voice, too.

"Don't mention it."

She laughs a little, and he can feel her relief. "Oh, I won't!" She goes away with a light step, and McCoy finds himself thinking that here's another who has not escaped Vulcan's brand of specific gravity. 'What _is_ it, about Spock,' he wonders, 'that makes every scientist in Starfleet go around so in awe of the guy?'

Alone at the community table, Uhura is unobtrusively shifting around the last few shreds of lettuce still on her plate; and Leonard realizes she is just waiting, too.

He goes, and - avoiding the still empty seat - sits beside her, turning his chair so that he can look at her full on.

Hunched over her plate, she hardly seems to notice.

"Hey, darlin'," he says kindly, resting one hand on her suddenly-frail-seeming shoulder. (He's a friend, now, not a doctor.) After a moment, he lets his palm slip sideways to delicately rub the shoulder and then a bit of her back. She straightens under his touch and gives up the pretense of picking at her food.

"How're you doing?"

She smiles, just a little, though she looks tired. "Fine, I guess."

"You guess?"

She puts her utensils down, puts her napkin next to them on the tray, and pushes the whole thing away.

"Can I see him?"

He hadn't anticipated the blunt question, but perhaps he should have.

Her head turns, then, and her eyes look square into his. They are unreadable – and he supposes that's a good thing: He suspects there's anger there, and impatience, mixed in with the worry, and all the rest.

"Yes."

Without another word, she gathers her tray, and stands.

As he slowly follows her over to the unit, it occurs to him that it must get old sometimes, the pretense and circumspection. The Human constitution just isn't designed for extended self-denial, and self-effacement.

Still…

"Clothes," he says, coming up beside her as she turns. Her brows arc – probably at the roughness of his voice – and he says, more fully, "Do you think you can find him a change of clothes?"

"Probably." She thinks a second, then says, with increasing assurance, "I think so, yes."

"Okay."

"And food. He'll probably want food." He glances at her for confirmation, and shrugs a little. "Right?"

"Yes," she says deliberately, her tone neutral, "He'll probably want food."

"Okay, then."

"Is that all, Doctor?" Her abrupt question sounds almost belligerent in comparison to her usual silky tone.

He matches that voice, or tries – he's missing real motivation. "I don't know. You tell me."

She meets his eyes, and looks into them for a long, disconcerting moment. As the seconds pass, the tense lines of her face start to soften: Her frustration isn't really directed at him.

After a minute, a corner of her mouth quirks up; and his does, too – and this he can do with total sincerity.

She reaches one hand, and pats his arm, letting it linger there - perhaps in apology; then turns toward the food dispenser. "Come on," she says, a smile starting, "You can take him the tray, while I go dig around and find something for him to wear. Okay?"


End file.
